


if you ever hunger, hunger for me

by meansgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Almost), (light) Verbal Humiliation, Acts of Kindness, Age Difference, Aged-Down Character, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Blow Jobs, Body Image, Bottoming from the Top, Bratty Mycroft, Bruises, Canon Compliance (kind of), Caretaking, Catharsis, Cats, Cohabitation, Comfort Sex, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Domestic Bliss, Dress Up, Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, Dry Orgasm, Enthusiastic Consent, Exes, Explicit Consent, Extreme Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Falling In Love, Family Fluff, Feeding, First Dates, First Time, Food Issues, Friendship, Frottage, Gangbang Fantasy, Good Sex, Greg is Sweet, Greg's sister - Freeform, Grief, Hair-pulling, Hand Feeding, Happy Ending, Holidays, Holmes Family Feels, Hotel Sex, Intercrural Sex, Kink Discovery, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Kitchen Sex, Kittens, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Bites, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Make up sex, Making Up, Masturbation, May/December Relationship, Meet-Cute, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mirror Sex, Missionary Position, Mommy Issues, Multiple Orgasms, Mycroft Plays the Piano, Name Calling, Neediness, Nipple Play, Not Underage, Older Greg, Older Man/Younger Man, Painplay, Paris - Freeform, Phone Sex, Playing with Food, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Relationship Negotiation, Riding, Roughness, Service Top, Sex Tapes, Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex, Sickfic, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses, Sleepy Sex, Spy Stuff, Supportive partner, Switching, Teasing, Texting, Thighs, Topping from the Bottom, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vacation, Younger Mycroft, animal adoption, couple fights, degrading names, handjobs, taking pictures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 115,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26228518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: Greg notices the kid watching him, and for a moment he fantasizes about watching back, doing the old once-over and eyebrow quirk. Do people still cruise like that?AU with a younger Mycroft, who can't stop watching the silver fox at the pub.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 490
Kudos: 512





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mind. The. Tags. 
> 
> 🤷

Greg notices the kid watching him, and for a moment he fantasizes about watching back, doing the old once-over and eyebrow quirk. Do people still cruise like that? Not usually in pubs like this, if they still do, that’s for sure. Then again, there aren’t usually young pretty things in pubs like this, either. Tonight, for some reason, a little knot of Uni kids have washed up at Greg’s local. The kid in question sits with them, but a little outside their bubble of chatter and shouting across the table. 

Greg sneaks glances. The kid sits beside and slightly behind a pretty blonde with sharp eyes and a smug little smirk, and every so often he leans forward to say something for her ears only. She rolls her eyes, smirks more, raises an eyebrow. But none of it looks suggestive. He’s not there  _ with _ that girl. 

Good thing, too, because that would make his hot little looks Greg’s way a bit awkward, wouldn’t it? 

Greg gives himself an internal shake and turns back to the match he’d come here to watch on the screens over the bar. He tells himself to stop being such a dirty old man. 

But the kid  _ had _ been watching Greg. Right?

“Pardon me.”

Greg startles a bit, spine going straight. He swivels his barstool in the direction of the soft voice. The blonde girl stands just behind him, hip cocked and arms crossed artfully over her torso to boost and display her breasts in the scoopy top she’s wearing. Greg raises an eyebrow. “Need to get to the bar?”

She laughs, a brief little tinkling bell sound. “No,” she says. “No, I’m here for my friend over there. The boy with the reddish hair?”

Greg’s mouth goes dry. “Oh?”

“Yes.” She glances over her shoulder to where the kid sits, staring at her in obvious horror. “His name’s Mike. He was wondering if you would like to buy him a drink.”

Greg tries to keep his jaw from dropping, but it does anyway, and he lets out a surprised laugh. “Was he, now?” He looks past her, taking in the shock on the boy’s face just before he turns away, hiding his eyes from Greg’s view. 

“Well.” The girl holds up her hands.  _ “I  _ was wondering if you would. He’s shy, you see. Could never bring himself to make the first move.” 

“Pretty sure I’m old enough to be your friend’s father,” Greg says drily. “Now you’ve had your laugh—” 

“I’m not having a laugh,” she says easily. “He’s not, either. You’re  _ really _ his type, you see.” She leans forward and whispers: “Daddy issues, you know how it is.” 

Greg laughs, shocked at her bluntness. “Good god,” he says. “Send the poor thing over here. He looks ready to die of embarrassment. I’ll buy him the drink and send him back to you in a moment after I let him know there’s been no harm done. You shouldn’t have pushed, he looks ready to sink through the floor.”

The girl seems drawn up short by this. She stills, then nods slowly. “You’re right,” she says. “Of course. I didn’t mean it cruelly, just so you know. I’ll send him over. The rest of us are headed to The Roxy. I hope not to see him for the rest of the night, but he can meet us there if you bollocks this up.”

_ “Jesus!”  _ Greg shakes his head at her, but she’s already walking away - marching really, her head held high in victory. 

The kid - Mike - glares daggers at her but allows himself to be chivvied out of his seat and shoved in the direction of the bar. Now that he’s standing, Greg sees that he’s pretty tall, maybe the same height as Greg, and slim. He has that look about him, like he’s halfway into the face he’s going to have, softness still there though most of it has fallen away. Not babyfaced, necessarily, but a bit prototypical. He’s wearing chinos and a tidy button-up, in contrast to his friends, who are clearly dressed for a sweaty, dancey piss-up. He has a flop of reddish-brown hair curling over his forehead, and a nervous tilt to his mouth. 

Greg smiles at him as he slides a little awkwardly into the barstool beside him. “Your friend is a viper,” he says casually, like they’ve already been introduced and made a little small talk. “You alright?”

He blinks, gaping a bit at Greg like he can’t believe he’s been spoken to. “Well.” He clears his throat. “Sorry, yes, she… I’m so sorry, I begged her not to.”

Greg nudges his ankle with his own foot. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to sound as laid back as possible. This poor kid. “Mike, right? I’m Greg.” He holds out his hand. 

“Not Mike,” the boy says, shaking his hand. He has soft, cool skin. “Mycroft. She was probably trying to give me the option of a fake name.” 

Greg laughs at the cheeky little roll of the eyes that follows. “Mycroft? That’s an interesting name.”

“I have quirky parents,” Mycroft demurs. 

“I’ll just bet.” 

Before Greg can ask Mycroft what he’d like to drink, his little group is leaving. Mycroft’s face goes blankly terrified as his girl friend wiggles her fingers in a wave on her way out. 

“Listen,” Greg says, drawing Mycroft’s attention back to him. “It’s alright if you want to go with them. You won’t hurt my feelings.” 

“No,” Mycroft says quickly. “No, I really  _ don’t _ want to go to The Roxy. And… and I did— that is, I  _ was _ , er… looking. At you. Earlier.”

Greg smiles and feels something go a little fluttery in his chest. Christ, this kid is cute, all nerves and blushy, high cheekbones. “Yeah? I did notice.”

“I know,” Mycroft says, then winces. “Sorry, that’s such a twatty thing to say.”

Greg laughs, surprised. “No, no,” he says. “I noticed you noticing.”

Mycroft bites his lip and smiles, even as he’s glancing away, averting his eyes to the telly over the bar. Shy. “Alright,” he says. 

“How old are you, Mycroft?”

His throat moves as he swallows nervously. “Nineteen,” he says, still not looking. 

_ Jesus Christ.  _ That little blonde bint just dropped a  _ baby _ in Greg’s lap. Greg takes a slow, deep breath. “Listen—”

“I’ve been attempting to pinpoint your exact age,” Mycroft interrupts. “There’s the hair, which statistically would place you over fifty. But then the lack of deep lines on your face tells me that’s unlikely. You went prematurely silver, probably. But you’re at  _ least _ in your late thirties, because your shoes say you walk quite a lot for work, but your watch is mid-range; nice. You have advanced in your career and treated yourself to that watch to celebrate a promotion. I’d say police work, based on the warrant-card shaped lines in your right trouser pocket.” 

Here, he pauses for breath, but does not meet Greg’s stunned gaze. He continues. 

“D.I., then, or D.C.I. Even if you started at the Met as a P.C. at a young age, it’s statistically likely that you wouldn’t have made D.I. before the age of thirty. That’s at the low end. The watch is at least five years old, probably nearly ten. D.I., then, you couldn’t have been D.C.I. for that long. Still, your car keys are there on the bar and you drive a newer BMW. Maybe you  _ are  _ a D.C.I. now, and you pulled the trigger on the car you’d been eying when you got the pay raise. But then again, you’re divorced, somewhat recently. No tan line where the ring would have been, but the shape of your ring finger is still a little altered. A smoothness to the skin, no tiny hairs on the knuckle. You were married for a long time, and it ended within the last two or three years at most. Maybe that’s when you bought the car.”

Mycroft draws another breath and moves his gaze from the telly to his own hands, clenched on top of the bar. 

“Divorced three years ago, married at least ten, so you probably married in the early 2000s. Statistically, you were likely in your early to mid thirties at that time. Promotion to D.I. in 2011 or slightly earlier, marriage ended within five years - demands of the job, late nights, a reduction in intimacy, et cetera, et cetera - and once that was over, you threw yourself into work and reached for the brass ring of another step up the ladder. You regret it; you’re fit, you don’t like sitting still, and you dislike being trapped behind a desk more hours than not. You’re forty-five, I’d say.” 

Greg blinks. Turns to look at the telly, which Mycroft hasn’t turned away from, not once during all that. “I’m forty-six,” he says, his voice coming out like air from a punctured tire. “What in fuck was that?”

Mycroft snorts. “My friends are all around my age, but all of  _ them _ are in their second year of University. I’m reading political science and law at the graduate school. My IQ has measured at 180, 193, and 199. They stopped testing me once I turned thirteen. I’ve been living away from my parents with little to no supervision for four years. I am not a baby.” He finally turns to look Greg in the eye. “Does that assuage your pointless, age-based guilt over staring at my mouth since the moment I walked over here?”

_ “Jesus,”  _ Greg breathes. “Okay. What’ll you have?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

  
  


***

  
  


They spend hours in the pub, the football match and the buzz of people around them slowly fading out. Greg blinks and it’s after midnight, and he’s been talking to this… this unfairly attractive, sweet-looking kid with a barbed tongue, about anything and everything. 

He’s smart. Like, Greg’s pretty sure it should freak him out, that kind of smart. Greg tries to pick at what that means, how a fourteen year old gets sent off to Uni on his own, and it’s thought to be fine by all the adults involved. Mycroft dodges him, says, “My family is quite complicated,” and his tone tells Greg to leave it. 

“When I was your age,” Greg says, carefully not wincing at what a cliché he is, “I was sleeping on a mate’s sofa in Peckham, eating beans out of the tin most nights.” 

“I live with my uncle in Belgravia, for now,” Mycroft says. “I have a suite of rooms. It’s… stuffy.”

Greg raises both eyebrows. “So you’re a rich boy with daddy issues. Interesting.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Is that what Alicia told you? Daddy issues? How boring.”

“Boring?”

“Very,” Mycroft says, sipping at his beer and making the same face he’s been making all night because he clearly hates the taste. “I have  _ mummy _ issues, as a matter of fact. My father was - is - harmless and soft to a fault. It’s my mother who is paradoxically overbearing  _ and _ distant. She steamrolls everyone in her path, including her husband, and her word was very much law when I was growing up. Now that my brother and I are both out of the house, she seems intent on performing the role of the clueless mother when she is anything but. She’s sharp and self-centered, and has really no clue how to nurture anyone in any effective way. She’s not cruel, she was never abusive, she was simply… more our manager than our mother. And our father is too weak and, frankly, besotted with her to step out of line and pick up her slack. He’s sweet, my father, but I barely know him.”

“Your parents sound like the opposite of mine,” Greg says, trying to work through all of that in his mind while he talks. “Mum was a pushover, dad was a raging bull. Couldn’t breathe wrong around him, and god help you if you did.”

“Your father disowned you for your bisexuality,” Mycroft guesses - though he’s already told Greg he doesn't guess at all, he  _ observes.  _ “Didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Greg says, not really feeling much about that anymore. “Which was actually fine by me. Maybe if my mother had lived to see it happen, but she was already gone, and I was honestly glad to have a reason never to see the bastard again.”

Mycroft nodded and sipped at his drink. “Is that why you like younger men? You want to be the big protector your father never was?” 

“Jesus,” Greg mutters. “No, Mycroft, and just so you know I don’t generally date or sleep with  _ younger men.  _ Or women, for that matter.” 

Mycroft doesn't comment on that. “I like older men,” he says plainly. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the elbow now, and he fiddles with them, pretending to neaten them. “I’ve always liked older men. But I’ll admit I’ve never had the nerve to be the one to approach, and the couple who offered were my professors, which… absolutely not. I like ones that are bigger than me, and stronger, and rougher. And I always thought I’d like him to be… kind. Genuine.” 

“So you thought I fit that bill and sent your friend over?”

“I made the mistake of indulging her and telling her my type. She caught me looking at you and tried to get me to do something about it. I refused, and she did what she did because she’s a horrible, meddling bitch.” Mycroft smiles, turning his pint glass in a wet circle of condensation on the bar. “I’m glad she did it. I did think you looked… well, you’re. Fit. Would be the right word. And you have…” He winces. “I sound like an idiot. You have kind eyes. And laugh lines here.”

Greg holds still, holds his breath, and Mycroft reaches out and touches his crow’s feet. “You don’t sound like an idiot,” he says once Mycroft pulls his hand away. “You’re an interesting boy, Mycroft.”

Mycroft wrinkles his nose.  _ “Boy.” _

Greg finds himself wanting to just. Hug him. It’s stupid.  _ He’s _ stupid. He shouldn’t be considering touching him at all. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Mycroft’s face is deadly serious. “Absolutely.”

  
  


***

  
  


At Greg’s flat, Mycroft does a nervous lap of the lounge, examining everything, while Greg fixes them something stronger, for his own nerves, than the beer, and hopefully more palatable to Mycroft. Greg feels like he’s having some sort of attack the entire time he’s puttering around the kitchen. His heart races, and his fingers feel numb with disbelief. He finds himself drawing in a deep breath, leaning forward against the refrigerator to try and collect himself. 

He carries the drinks in and sets them on his old coffee table with the wobbly leg he has to stick a matchbook under to hold it steady. Mycroft is staring at photos of Greg’s nieces, hands folded behind his back. 

“Want to sit?” Greg asks, hovering at the center of the room, unsure what to do with his hands. 

Mycroft turns and solves the problem for him by crossing the room and pressing his mouth to Greg’s. He’s actually an inch or two taller than Greg, but so much more… delicate. Slim and soft. Greg’s hands go to his hips on instinct, pulling him a little closer as he kisses him back. Of course he kisses him back; Greg’s been working too much and avoiding the dating apps Sally insists he should try, and it’s been so long since anyone touched him at all, and… And Mycroft is shaking. 

Greg gentles the kiss and pulls away. “Okay?” 

Mycroft’s eyes are closed, and he doesn't open them, just licks his lips and nods. “I don’t… I’m not…” 

“We don’t have to do anything, sweetheart,” Greg murmurs, shocking himself with the easy intimacy of the endearment. He reaches up, cups Mycroft’s soft cheek, and strokes his thumb over one high cheekbone. 

“I want to,” Mycroft says, and opens his eyes. They’re wide and nervous, his pupils dilated and ringed by pretty ice blue. “You’re so… I like you.” 

Greg huffs. “Yeah? Why? Grey hair and love handles?” 

“I think you would take care of me,” Mycroft says bluntly, and Greg knows that he means in bed, not in any sort of sugar daddy sort of way. The kid’s rich and completely set up, he doesn't need it. 

“You a virgin?”

Mycroft shakes his head and sighs, stepping away. “No, I’m not, but it’s never been… I don’t know. Maybe it won’t be, maybe it doesn't matter who it is or what we do. It’s possible that I just don’t like it.”

“Sex?”

“Yes.”

“Like… any particular  _ kind  _ of sex, or just the whole thing in general?”

Mycroft shrugs and steps around Greg to go to the sofa and his waiting scotch and soda with a twist. He picks it up and takes a sip, then raises his eyebrows at the glass. “This is good.” 

“Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“No, not really.”    


Greg joins him on the sofa and picks up his own neat tumbler. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Mycroft shrugs again and drinks. He fiddles with the glass, then sets it down so he can fiddle with his wristwatch. “I’m… different from people my own age. At Uni, that is. I don’t want to go to clubs with the undergraduates, because the crowds are overwhelming and the music is too loud. I don’t take the same classes. When I took them, they were all still in year ten. I don’t know much about pop culture, because most of the people I’m around all day, every day, are busy with research or teaching or both, and no one talks about who did what on Britain’s Got Talent. A lot of the people I see every day are going to one day become my colleagues. A lot of them are conniving, shallow idiots, and I don’t care what any of them think of me but I certainly don’t want to  _ do _ anything with them, or let them know me in that way. They patronize me and believe they are superior because I’m younger. Any of them showing interest would be extremely suspect, not that the feeling would ever be mutual.”

Greg just listens to all of that, and then he keeps listening, but with his hand on Mycroft’s jiggling knee. 

“I ‘dated,’ barely, someone my age. It fizzled out because we have absolutely nothing in common. We had sex. A lot of it. I didn’t care for it.”

Greg squeezes his knee gently. “I’ll need a little more than that. Did he pressure you?  _ Force—”  _

“No!” Mycroft’s head snaps up, breaking his intense study of the inside of his half-empty glass. “No, it wasn’t that. I was willing. I wanted to do it, I was ready to do it. I just… didn’t see what all the fuss was about. It was messy, which I wouldn’t have minded if it had been interesting enough to distract from that, and some of it was uncomfortable and some of it painful.  _ He _ seemed to like all of it, whereas I… I was indifferent to it, really.” 

Mycroft falls silent. Greg keeps his hand on his knee, and ducks his head to catch Mycroft’s eyes before they can cast down again. “Hey, that’s pretty normal, to be honest. Especially if you’re not all that into the person.”

“I know that,” Mycroft says. “What do you think I’m doing here?”

Cheeky. Greg chuckles and gives Mycroft’s knee a little shake. “I’m not… I don’t know. I don’t think we should…”

Mycroft flushes immediately, and moves to stand. “Oh,” he says. “Well, I can go—”

“No,” says Greg patiently, catching his hands and pulling him back down to sit. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just… Let’s not plan it out right now. You don’t know what you’ll want to do with me, right? How could you know? So I meant that maybe we could just… see how it goes. Yeah?”

Mycroft looks up from their clasped hands and lets out a shuddery breath. “You really are a very sweet sort of man, aren’t you?”

Greg brushes a kiss over his knuckles. “Only for the really cute boys,” he says. 

  
  


***

  
  


They finish their drinks, and Greg finds himself touching Mycroft gently and chastely as they talk and sit in lulls of silence, stroking his wrists and arms, reaching out to fix his hair, steadying his nervous knees. Eventually, Mycroft sets his glass of melting ice down on a coaster and rubs his palms together. 

“C’mere,” Greg says, setting aside his half-full drink. And it seems natural to tug Mycroft along the sofa cushions to sit closer, to turn his jaw with two gentle fingers, and kiss him nice and long and soft. By the time Greg stops pressing and nipping and drawing gently away, teasing, Mycroft’s pressed all up against him, his breath coming in sweet little puffs of warm air against Greg’s neck. “It’s alright,” Greg soothes. “It’s okay to be nervous, you know.  _ I’m _ nervous.”

Mycroft snorts. “What  _ for? _ I’m a sure thing.” 

“I  _ like  _ you, for one.” Greg tilts Mycroft’s face back up to look at him. “I want to make a good impression, so sue me for that I guess. But also… Christ. You’re so young, Mycroft, I just want to do right by you. You should get what you want, and god help me, I want to give it to you.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Mycroft says, with a hint of pleading. “Please don’t make it… tawdry. It’s not… it’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“Some people would think so,” Greg murmurs. “I’m twenty seven years older than you.”

Mycroft just rolls his eyes in response to that. Greg laughs and kisses him again, softly still, but then Mycroft makes an impatient noise and climbs into Greg’s lap. He presses his long-fingered hands to Greg’s cheeks and presses in with a lax, open mouth. 

Greg’s not a bloody saint. He holds Mycroft by the back of the head and brings him in tight, taking his mouth the way Mycroft clearly wants, sliding his tongue inside. Greg groans - Mycroft’s already hard and rocking in his lap. Oh, to be young again. Greg kisses him harder at that thought.  _ Jesus, I have completely lost my mind.  _

This time when they stop kissing, it’s just to breathe, and then Greg decides he really needs to know what that long, pretty neck tastes like. Mycroft sighs and tilts his head to the side, letting Greg have at it.

_ “Oh.”  _ Mycroft shudders in Greg’s arms. “Oh, there—”

“Sensitive?” Greg teases, and sucks gently again. 

_ “Ohhh…”  _

“You could’ve said,” Greg murmurs, nuzzling that sweet little spot. “Just steer me where you want me, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t know,” Mycroft says, and before Greg can express his annoyance at the boyfriend who clearly was just  _ bad at sex, _ he dips his head to ask for another kiss, which Greg is more than happy to give him. 

Mycroft starts rocking against him again, and Greg’s half-hard in his jeans from the glancing friction and the thrillingly razor thin line between acceptability and taboo. He takes hold of Mycroft’s hips and adjusts him a little, getting a little more weight on his own growing erection. Mycroft whimpers and shivers. 

“You like that?” Greg murmurs into his mouth. “You feel me?”

_ “Yes,”  _ Mycroft gasps, and his fingers are like claws digging into Greg’s shoulders. 

“God, you’re precious,” Greg blurts. He has no idea where he’s coming up with all this. He has no idea when he became a dirty old man, but  _ fucking hell.  _ “You’re on a hair trigger still, I bet. Could I get you to come in those trousers, d’you think?”

Mycroft stills, panting against Greg’s cheek. “Oh, god, you almost— Don’t, please, I have to go back to my Uncle’s eventually, and—” 

“Shhh,” Greg soothes. “I was teasing you, baby.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Baby?”

Mycroft whimpers. 

“Okay, noted,” Greg says, then tilts his head back to look up into Mycroft’s pretty, lust-blown blue eyes. “So you like that. What else? I know you’ve thought about it, even if you weren’t sure you’d like any of it. So?” 

“I…” Mycroft flushes a furious red. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It can be,” Greg says, running calming hands over Mycroft’s warm sides. “I won’t laugh.” 

“Can… Could I call you—” Mycroft swallows, shakes his head. “No, I can’t even say it now. Nevermind.” 

Greg feels him gearing up to move away again in his panic. He holds him steady and firm. “Hey, that’s okay,” he says, knowing goddamn good and well what Mycroft can’t bring himself to say. He can’t think about it at the moment,  _ holy shit _ . “Listen, can I do something for you? Take the edge off? Would that be good?”

“Such as?”

“Such as sucking your cock?”

Mycroft swallows visibly and nods, a touch frantic. “Alright, yes. Yes, that’s fine.”

Greg chuckles and pushes him off his lap gently. “Alright, then,” he says. “I assume the ex did this for you?”

Mycroft nods again, and while Greg chivvies him into a comfortable position on the sofa with a few throw pillows, he says, “It was fine. I don’t know if he was any good at it. He seemed to think I was, but— truly, who can say? We were both clueless, I think.”

“Well anything you don’t like, just say so,” Greg says. “Can I get these open?” He fingers the line of Mycroft’s zipper. Mycroft nods, and Greg unbuckles his belt and unbuttons and unzips his fly. Underneath, he’s wearing black shorts stretched snug over the hard line of his erection. 

“Don’t ask my permission anymore,” Mycroft says, clearly anticipating Greg’s next ask. “Just do it. Please.”

Greg shoots him a wry smile and snags an extra throw pillow, tossing it to the floor before lowering himself to his knees. He’ll pay for it tomorrow, but he’d sooner explode than admit that he has bad knees. He peels Mycroft’s pants away, tugging them and the trousers down to his ankles. And then he’s running his mouth again, more inexplicable dirty talk. 

It’s not that Greg doesn't  _ like _ dirty talk; he loves it. He simply shocks himself with  _ this _ dirty talk. 

“Look at this,” he murmurs, cupping a hand over Mycroft’s long, pink cock. “Look how pretty. This all for me?”

Mycroft stares down at him wide-eyed, and nods mutely. 

“It’s my lucky day,” Greg croons softly. “Just relax, alright? Can you lean back into the cushions? That’s a lad. Good.” 

Mycroft’s chest moves quickly with his breath. 

Greg leans in and runs his parted lips, head tilted sideways, up the underside of Mycroft’s cock. He sighs happily. “You’re gonna taste so good, baby boy,” he says. “Aren’t you?” 

Mycroft just moans and nods again. 

“Oh, so  _ now _ you’re shy,” Greg teases. “All that talk back at the pub, telling me about myself like a cocky little shit.” 

Mycroft’s eyes close, his brows drawn together in a wince. 

Greg laughs. “Hey, it’s alright. I liked it.” 

And with that, Greg’s done talking. He sets himself to the task of giving his first blowjob in decades, while acting like a bloody expert in the art. 

It’s like riding a bike, he thinks, and that’s funny enough that it lightens something in him. He swirls his tongue around the thick glans and looks up the length of Mycroft’s body to find him watching intently. Greg winks and Mycroft’s expression breaks. He grins, and for the first time all night, he really does look his age. Not just young because he’s got soft lines and slim wrists and a pinched, nervous expression that belies a certain kind of insecurity. He looks thrilled with himself for getting himself in this position, and gobsmacked at the same time. He looks smug and disbelieving and cocksure and reckless. 

_ Nineteen,  _ Greg thinks.  _ Fuck me sideways.  _

He takes Mycroft’s not-inconsiderable length as deep as he can without gagging, and moans around the mouthful, knowing what it’ll do to him, and also just… loving it. Greg loves it, has always liked giving oral, and this time it’s a boy - a  _ man _ , he reminds himself, and then hates himself for it because he knows he’s overcorrecting - who’s starting to make tiny little sounds of shocked enjoyment above him. His narrow hips hitch up between Greg’s rough palms. 

Mycroft gasps and squirms. He knots his fingers into fists around two throw pillows Greg placed on either side of him. He really… Greg hadn’t realized it at the time, but he had propped Mycroft up like a young emperor, then presented himself as a supplicant at his feet. 

Greg loves it. He feels worshipful and powerful. He feels dirty, and god help him, deserving. Entitled. And vaguely ashamed, which is doing it for him, too. 

“Oh,” Mycroft gasps. “Oh, oh—” 

Greg pulls off and holds him tightly at the base of his prick. “Close?”

Mycroft nods quickly. “Mmhmm,” he manages, with his teeth sunk prettily into his lower lip. “That’s… it’s…”

“Like it?”

_ “Yes.” _

“Good,” Greg says, low and dark. “Tell that other tosser to practice more so the next guy doesn't get the wrong idea about what it should be like, huh?”   


Mycroft barks a laugh. “I’ll leave a note on his dormitory door, then.”

Greg grins up at him. “Good boy,” he says, and Mycroft snaps his mouth shut, eyes wide. “Yeah, you like that,” Greg says a bit nonsensically, aware it’s like cheesy porn to say such a thing. 

But Mycroft nods slowly. “Yes.”

“C’mere,” Greg murmurs and leans up, pulling Mycroft forward and down for a kiss, good and sloppy. “I’m so hard right now, just from doing this to you,” he says, holding himself an inch away. “Sucking your pretty cock.”

“Mmph—” Mycroft tries to push forward into another kiss. 

Greg shushes him, shaking his head, and presses him back. “Sit back, baby.” 

Greg sucks him slowly and leisurely, and then hard and fast - goal-oriented - and then he stops again, murmuring filth into the crease of Mycroft’s thigh. Then he starts over. He does this again and again, until the boy above him is a mindless mess spread out over a pile of sofa cushions and pillows. 

Every stroke of Greg’s hand, as he kneels on the floor at Mycroft’s feet and stares up at him, punches a whine out of that smart, bitten-red mouth. Greg thinks it’s time. He can’t stay on his knees much longer, for one thing. But also he feels he’s proved his point. Obviously Mycroft likes this. Obviously it can be good. Greg did that. Greg gave that to him. 

Greg gets off the floor and sits half on top of him, jerking him hard and merciless. “Okay, now,” he says into Mycroft’s ear. 

Mycroft keens and leans into him, mouth falling open. He flails with one hand and clings to Greg’s shirt with it, his eyes trained on Greg’s hand where it strips over the head of his cock over and over. 

“Are you watching?” Greg asks roughly. 

Mycroft nods. 

“Good. That’s good. You’re so good, baby, you’re so fucking hot.”

Mycroft chokes on a cry and turns his face for a kiss. 

Greg bites at his lips and licks into his mouth, feeling a little like he could eat him whole. He gives him one last hard kiss and pulls away.  _ Time to go hurtling off the cliff _ , he thinks. 

“Watch, now. Watch. You’re gonna come for me. Come on, sweet boy. Come for me. Let Daddy see you come.”

And Mycroft, who Greg has known for just a couple of hours, who is young, way too fucking young to be here doing this with him, he goes still and shocked, his face frozen in utter bliss. His gorgeous pale skin is stained pink with a blush, and he comes. He comes screaming and clinging to Greg with one hand, the other flung out and holding fast to whatever it can reach

And Greg’s sure, in that moment, that he is completely, disastrously, in love. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be thinking: Is she alright?
> 
> I mean, no. 
> 
> It's grand.

Mycroft would be bracing himself for the awkward next bit - the part where Greg has to stand and go wash his hands, and then the part where he either comes back and angles for whatever it is he wants in return for what he just did for Mycroft, or comes back and tells Mycroft to call a cab and get out, or whatever ice bucket of a scenario Mycroft could come up with next. But Mycroft is too busy catching his breath and trying to turn down the volume on the rushing in his ears to even begin to be truly anxious about any of that. 

Besides, Greg isn’t moving away from him. He’s pressing closer, his messy hand curled against Mycroft’s bare groin, out of the way of the sofa and Mycroft’s shirt, and his other one is petting gently over Mycroft’s hair while he whispers nonsense in his ear. 

Or, Mycroft amends as he gets back his ability to concentrate on words, not nonsense. 

“That was good,” Greg says to him. “That was beautiful. So, so pretty. Such a good boy for me.”

Mycroft shudders, an aftershock like a bolt of electricity shooting its way down his liquefied spine. “Ah!” 

“You okay?”

Mycroft nods, shuffling his feet awkwardly and trying to at least sit up from his slump against all these pillows. Who has this many little pillows on their sofa, anyway? His ankles are still constrained by his trousers and underwear, his belt hanging unbuckled from the loops and jingling against the floor. 

“Hang on,” Greg says. “Let me just—” He reaches for a box of tissue on the table beside the sofa, and Mycroft watches muzzily as he cleans his messy hand and then slides down to crouch on the floor. “Can i get rid of these?”

Mycroft nods, still unable to muster words. 

Greg unties Mycroft’s shoes and slips them off, plus his socks, before slipping the bunched up pants and chinos away and tossing them to the side. That done, he moves back up to the sofa beside him and flicks open the top button of Mycroft’s shirt. “This, too?” 

Mycroft nods, then helps with the shirt, and in no time at all he’s being pressed, naked, down onto the sofa, kissed and kissed and kissed while Greg’s broad, warm hands pass over all of his pale, awkward body. He realizes his legs are shaking. 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Greg checks. “You’ve gone very quiet.”

His eyes are dark and warm and so… Mycroft swallows hard. “I always do, after,” he manages. “It’s— well, orgasms seem to reset my brain. It takes a moment for everything to feel normal again.” 

“That,” Greg says, “is really cute.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

“There he is,” Greg murmurs, brushing his nose against Mycroft’s, then his lips against Mycroft’s lips. “I hope it’s okay that I said… all that.”

Mycroft swallows an inexplicable, hysterical giggle. “Mm,” he manages to say, hoping it’s read as the affirmative it’s meant to be. 

Greg pushes up, hovering over Mycroft on the sofa, and his eyes roam down over his chest and belly, his hand following their path. Mycroft twitches, tries to tug Greg back down, and when that doesn't work, he tries to subtly curl up and hide some of the middle bits he doesn't think need to be studied so closely, even in the dim lamp light of Greg's lounge. 

“What’s the matter?” Greg sits up further. “Do you not… you don’t like being looked at?”

“Not… not really.” Mycroft feels his face flame and swallows hard. “It’s…” He can’t finish that sentence. God, this is so embarrassing. 

Greg clicks his tongue in a little tsk. “Well anyone might feel a little weird about it. Sorry. I didn’t mean to… I think you’re lovely, but having a fully dressed stranger stare at you’s probably a bit weird, yeah?”

Mycroft covers his face with one hand and tries to breathe. “You’re being so _kind_ to me.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Greg gently tugs Mycroft’s hand away. “No, I’m not. Don’t say that. Should I not have taken your clothes off? Want them back?” 

“No,” Mycroft says, and he’s surprised at how sure he suddenly is of that. “No, I… would you— Could I?” He reaches for Greg’s shirt buttons. 

“Of course you can,” Greg says softly. “But maybe… Let’s move to my bed?” 

Mycroft’s heart stutters. He nods, _yes,_ he wants that. 

Greg hauls him up off the sofa, and then for reasons Mycroft can _not_ fathom, pulls him in close and covers Mycroft’s backside with both of his big hands, and squeezes. He nuzzles his nose down into Mycroft’s neck and breathes in deeply. 

“You’re so…” Greg chuckles into Mycroft’s throat. “Christ, lovely. So lovely.” 

Mycroft can’t. He can’t say anything to that. Suddenly, he’s completely unsure again. He misses the incredible focus of a few minutes ago, when he was hard and hurtling toward orgasm, shocked at how good it was and blindly willing to give himself over. He wishes he had the nerve to get back to that place, to be the one to put himself there, or at least to _ask_ to be put there. His hands clutch a little desperately at Greg’s back. 

“It’s okay,” Greg murmurs. “Come on.” 

  
  


***

  
  


The last time Mycroft was in someone else’s bed it was in a dorm room, narrow and creaky with sheets that smelled like someone’s spilled cider. Greg has a nice, big bed, with clean sheets and a soft blue duvet and a mountain of pillows. 

“You like pillows,” Mycroft observes a bit stupidly. Behind him, Greg chuckles. Warm hands cup Mycroft’s hips and pull him back to rest against Greg’s broad chest. 

“I do,” Greg admits. “At some point in life, you have to accept the part of yourself that wants to be _really_ comfy _all_ the time. And spend half a paycheck making that happen every so often. I suppose that’s the most useful life lesson this old copper has to offer.” 

Mycroft huffs a laugh at the wryness in Greg’s voice, which rumbles against Mycroft’s back. “I doubt that’s the _most_ useful,” he says. 

“Oh, darlin’,” Greg sighs. “You would be surprised. Here, let’s get you comfortable, hm?”

Mycroft lets Greg arrange him on top of the velvety soft duvet cover, and then watches as the man unbuttons first his shirt cuffs, then the line of buttons down the front, with quick efficiency. The pale blue shirt falls to the floor, and then so does the black leather belt. Greg doesn't watch Mycroft watching him. In fact, as he strips out of his white vest and unzips his charcoal grey trousers, he averts his eyes and seems to stall a little, his hands pausing at his waistband. 

Mycroft is drinking in the sight of him with greedy eyes, so it takes a beat longer than it should have for him to realize Greg’s hesitating. Mycroft pushes up onto his elbows. “Greg?”

In the dim light of the room, Greg’s eyes are shadowed and unreadable from halfway across the space. “Point of no return, I guess,” Greg murmurs. “You’re sure you want— “

Mycroft is already half hard again and he has to _ask?_ But he bites his tongue on the snappy reply. “Yes,” he says instead. “Yes, please. _Please._ Let me touch you back.” 

Greg makes a soft little noise and drops pants and trousers, kicking them off and to the side. His socks join them and he moves, still a little hesitant, toward the bed. 

Mycroft takes him in, trying desperately not to look too wide-eyed and stupid as he does. 

_God._ Chest hair. More than Mycroft has, and darker and thicker, sparkling silver in the center darkening to near-black at the edges of pectorals that are broader than his own might ever be. Mycroft reaches out, fingers skimming over the soft triangle of it, and down Greg’s firm belly. He _is_ fit. Mycroft wonders what he does to manage it with a job that keeps him mostly behind a desk. 

_Not the time to deduce it,_ he tells himself, though doing so would probably help him forget his nerves again. 

Greg’s cock is hard and dark. It’s thicker than Mycroft’s, thicker too than the last one he touched, and standing out from a thick - but neatly groomed - thatch of dark-and-silver hair. Greg’s belly is mostly smooth, but across the tops of his thighs and all down his legs is dark, coarse hair. Mycroft touches tentatively, kneeling up on the bed so that he can. Greg watches him and doesn't move, doesn't demand anything or try to angle his body to get Mycroft’s hand on his cock or anywhere that Mycroft doesn't put it of his own volition. 

Mycroft has never touched someone quite like this. Never looked at someone this thoroughly without trying to be surreptitious about it. 

“I’m…” Greg clears his throat to rid his voice of a little rasp. “I’m afraid I’m not… I. Look, the reality of someone with greying chest hair and—” 

“Shut up,” Mycroft blurts. He blinks, shocked at himself, and meets Greg’s big dark eyes. Greg doesn't look shocked or annoyed by it. He actually half-smiles rather sweetly. “Sorry,” Mycroft hurries to say, though he rarely apologizes for rudeness. He has to do it now. “Sorry, just. Stop that. Don’t. You’re.” 

Mycroft scrunches his eyes shut, annoyed with himself for being too foggy from his orgasm, still, or possibly just too disgustingly besotted, to be eloquent. “God,” he manages, a little strangled. “You’re exactly what I’ve always _wanted,_ and I have no idea what to _do.”_

Greg’s breath catches and stutters. They stare at each other for a moment, Mycroft practically vibrating with nerves all over again, but determined to meet his gaze steadily. Greg’s tongue darts out and wets his lips, and Mycroft is _done_ waiting. He surges up and takes a kiss, hooking one hand around Greg’s neck to bring them together and opening his mouth with a gasp to let Greg’s tongue sweep in. 

Greg hauls him in close immediately, strong arms around Mycroft’s back bringing their bare skin together from chest to thigh. Greg’s hot, hard cock slots up against Mycroft’s, which is fully hard again and still a little sticky with drying come. 

“Christ,” Greg groans, pulling back just a bare centimeter to breathe and speak. “You’re ready to go again already. Aren’t you?”

Mycroft laughs weakly “Yes,” he says. “It’s… you’re so— I can’t help it.”

“I am _not_ complaining,” Greg rumbles into the next kiss, and as his tongue strokes against Mycroft’s they go tumbling down onto the mattress, Mycroft’s legs opening easily so Greg can rock between them, the velvet heat of his prick moving leisurely in the sweat-slick crease of Mycroft’s thigh. 

Mycroft wants to beg Greg to fuck him. He didn’t like it the last time he tried, but he just knows it would be good with him, it would _have_ to be, or there really is no point to people. The world is not fair, but it wouldn’t be so cruel as to show Mycroft that this person actually exists, only for what had happened in the lounge to turn out to be fluke. 

Still, he’s too afraid to ask for it. He can’t. What would that _sound_ like? He’s known Greg or all of what, three hours? 

Greg’s hands frame Mycroft’s face when he breaks the seemingly endless flow of deep, hot kisses. “You’re thinking really hard,” he says roughly. “Aren’t you? You okay?” 

“I always ‘think really hard’,” Mycroft says, trying to sound arrogant and haughty and not hopelessly awkward. 

“Hmm.” Greg kisses him, chastely this time. “Poor baby,” he murmurs. “What do you want? Wanna try to stop thinking? Or…” He rolls, swapping their positions. “Sit up, sweetheart.” 

Mycroft does, still a little breathless with surprise. He sits on Greg’s thighs and blinks down at him and wonders how the _hell_ he got here. 

“Think all you want,” Greg says. His hands stroke over Mycroft’s spread legs and up his sides. “Do whatever you want. No rush. I…” His lips twist into a self-deprecating smirk. “I’ve got one go in me tonight, and I’m in no hurry.” 

What he’s offering is… Mycroft really has no idea how to be this person who _talks_ during sex, while _completely naked,_ with a light on - a soft, low-intensity lamp, but still - and… and with someone he’s actually attracted to. So _very_ attracted, so much it makes him feel a little light headed. This has never happened to him before. 

His hands shake as he places them tentatively against Greg’s chest. “What… what should I—?” 

Greg lays his palms over the backs of Mycroft’s nervous hands and gently guides them down. “Whatever,” he says. “Anything you want.” 

Mycroft could weep, out of frustration, or maybe out of relief. Out of a rising sense of deep-seated happiness. This is all for him. All this skin and muscle and heat. He traces a line up the center of Greg’s stomach, which jumps under his fingers, to his dark nipples. Greg’s smile spreads slowly across his handsome face, eyes lidded as he watches Mycroft tease tentatively at the hard little nubs of flesh. 

“Do you like your nipples touched?” Greg asks. 

Mycroft nods, and gasps when Greg reaches up immediately to gently tweak one. 

“Like that?”

“You can do it a little harder,” Mycroft murmurs, rolling his fingers around one of Greg’s. “Like this.” 

Greg grunts and shifts under Mycroft’s thighs. “Mmm, I like that too.” He teases at Mycroft’s chest, mirroring everything Mycroft does to him, and it’s a feedback loop of soft gasps and caught breath. Mycroft moves forward in Greg’s lap and rocks against him without consciously deciding to do so. His gaze gets caught on the sight of his own cock, long and pink, brushing up against Greg’s, thick and flushed dark. 

He shifts his hands up to Greg’s shoulders, holding on for leverage as he grinds down and bites his lip on a groan. 

“Hey,” Greg murmurs. He reaches up and thumbs Mycroft’s lip out from between his teeth. “Neighbors won’t hear.” 

Mycroft laughs, a little shaky. “I’m used to keeping quiet.” 

“I know,” Greg says with a wry smile, even as he rocks gently up against him. “Took me _years_ to get out of the habit.” 

“I rather… lost it, earlier.” Mycroft shakes his head, remembering how he’d sounded earlier. His eyes go unfocused just thinking about it. Thinking of Greg’s rough voice, his accent on the words _let Daddy see you come._ He shudders. When he looks up, it’s to Greg’s sparkling eyes and quirked eyebrow. “Shut up,” Mycroft says, looking away. 

“I’ve never said that in bed before,” Greg says. “I didn’t know I’d like it, but you… you were so…” 

Mycroft swallows his whimper and leans forward, needing to hide his face and wanting to be kissed. Greg’s arms circle around him, one hand coming up to scritch soothingly at the back of his head. Greg’s mouth opens easily under his, and he kisses Mycroft just how he was wanting - firm, leading him down closer, directing him with his mouth and hands. And then he goes gentle and soft, waiting, not directing but observing. Mycroft doesn't know why it feels the way it does. He doesn't know where the tremble in his hands is coming from. 

Mycroft kisses Greg soft and slow, more gently than Greg had done it, more tentative. He wants to memorize the shape of the lips under his, the scrape of the stubble that’s already starting to leave his mouth a little raw and tingling. 

“You’re so sweet,” Greg murmurs into Mycroft’s mouth. His hands run down to Mycroft’s hips and prompt him to rock against him again. “You feel so good.” 

Mycroft can’t help grinding down harder against him, desperate little noises slipping past his lips and into Greg’s. He wants to beg for _something,_ but he doesn't know what. This is all so good and Mycroft has _never—_ He catches his breath, catches _himself,_ and manages to marshal his thoughts enough to be decisive. 

His mouth. He wants to get his mouth on Greg. Anywhere. He tastes his neck, the crook of his shoulder. He feels the roughness of chest hair with his lips and the nub of one nipple with the flat of his tongue, and then worries it very, very gently with his teeth. When Greg likes it, he holds Mycroft firmly by the back of the neck, showing him that he wants him to stay in place, do it more. 

“That’s so good, baby,” he murmurs, and his other hand is soft on Mycroft’s face, fingertips tracing over the shell of his ear, his temples, the corner of his mouth as he sucks hard on Greg’s other nipple. “You make me feel so good.” 

Mycroft makes his way down, wishing that Greg had called himself _Daddy_ again, just then. He can’t describe what that was like before. Couldn’t find the words even if placed under duress. That never happens to him. But… he just can’t. He doesn't know if he likes it because it’s forbidden, or because he knows there is nothing wrong with it. He doesn't know how he’ll ever bring himself to ask for it again or say the word himself. 

He licks, just tasting at first, around the exposed head of Greg’s cock. He sighs, content. He does like doing this. It had been his favorite thing with the only other person he’s done it with. That had been about a lot more - or maybe it would be more apt to say it had been about _less -_ than pleasure. Giving a blowjob took the heat off Mycroft, diverted attention from the fact that he wasn’t exactly experiencing fireworks, and let him focus on attempting to help his partner feel that way so the whole thing wasn’t just a waste of time. 

This is different. Greg moans softly, praise mixed in with the exhalation of a satisfied breath. His hand, thick fingers and broad palm, rests against the top of Mycroft’s head, not pushing or demanding, but just… just touching him there. Cradling him there. He tastes bitter and a little salty, the musky smell of him strong in Mycroft’s nostrils when he sucks in a breath. Greg just keeps _touching_ him, fingers massaging gently at his scalp. He uses his free hand to cover Mycroft’s where it rests splayed over Greg’s belly. Their fingers lace together. 

Mycroft doesn't understand what this is. It feels so intimate. It feels so _good,_ and it’s just skin and spit. That’s all it’s ever been. But now he feels lit up by it. He feels driven to be good, good _at_ it and good _for_ him. He sucks and licks and bobs his head, careful not to gag. 

“Oh, baby,” Greg murmurs, thumb back at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, feeling the stretch of it around his own girth. “Oh, sweet boy, just like that.”

Mycroft rocks his hips down against the mattress and groans around the cock in his mouth. Everything feels raw. He’s still sensitive from before, and drying semen makes everything feel too rough and borderline uncomfortable, but it works, it’s _working._ He loves it. 

“Look at that mouth,” Greg rasps. “Jesus Christ, I should get you to do this in front of a mirror and watch yourself.”

Mycroft shudders with shock. _Holy god, yes, do that, make me do that._

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” Greg pets him, hand heavy and a little fumbling with mindlessness. “Is this all you want? Want me to come down that pretty throat?” His finger traces down the side of Mycroft’s neck. 

He’s so gentle, so why does Mycroft shake like he’s anticipating a firmer hand? Is that what he wants? Why would he want that? Is he afraid of Greg? No. But does he want to be, is that what this is about?

His mind is running away from him. He pulls off, gasping. “No, I don’t think so,” he manages to say through buzzing lips. “Unless that’s what you want…” _Daddy. Say it._

He can’t. 

Greg nudges him with a foot. “Come up here,” he rumbles. 

Mycroft settles in his arms and Greg kisses him, licks sweetly into his mouth. 

“You taste like me,” he sighs when they draw apart. 

Mycroft’s eyes squeeze shut. _God._

“You’re so mixed up,” Greg murmurs, petting him all over. “My poor baby, I’m sorry, I’m not taking very good care of you.”

 _“No.”_ Mycroft clings and squirms. “No, you’re… It’s so good, I’m just. I’m just—” 

What if he is simply bad at it? What if it’s _Mycroft_ who’s not good at sex? He can handle the mechanics, but just doesn't have it in him, can’t be honest enough to really— 

“Stop,” Greg commands, voice low and firm, but still so bloody _gentle._ Mycroft can hardly stand it. He holds still, and Greg rolls away, reaching for the nightstand. He comes back with a bottle of lube that had been tucked behind the alarm clock. 

“Oh,” Mycroft says, frozen. “I don’t know if—” 

“It’s not for that,” Greg says softly. “Shh. Turn over on your side, back to me. Just do it, love, I’ve got you.”

Mycroft feels ragged and exposed for a moment, but then Greg is holding him snugly against his chest, his mouth pressed sweetly to Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“See?” Greg rocks, his erection right up against Mycroft’s arse. “Got you, you’re fine.” 

Mycroft hears the click of the bottle, and a moment later a slick hand reaches around and closes over his prick. Mycroft moans, tilting his head back against Greg’s shoulder. 

“You were way too dry,” Greg scolds. “You could have told me.”

“I liked it, mostly.” 

“Well that’s alright, then.” Greg nuzzles in, nosing along Mycroft’s jawline. “But you shouldn’t let it go too far, you have to tell me what you need. Okay?” 

Mycroft nods, and Greg gives his hip a little pinch, not really painful, but surprising. “Ow!”

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes!” Mycroft gasps. “Sorry! Yes, I’ll tell you.” 

“Good lad,” Greg murmurs, and Mycroft can hear that he’s grinning. “Words aren’t so difficult, huh?”

“You are so mean,” Mycroft finds himself saying, petulant like he’s fairly sure he has _never_ been allowed to sound in his life. 

“Am I?” Greg strokes his cock with a loose grip. “I’m so mean to you. You’re right.” His slippery palm rolls Mycroft’s balls and cups them. “Is that what you want me to be? Hm?”

“N-no.”

“You don’t want a mean Daddy?” Greg’s rocking against him, the sticky wet head of his cock smearing at the base of Mycroft’s spine. The rough fur of his legs is delicious on the smooth backs of Mycroft’s thighs. “Someone to take you in hand and punish you?”

Mycroft shakes his head and tries to rock back into him. “No, no, that’s not what I want.”

“I didn’t think so.” Greg’s hand closes around his shaft again and he bestows a series of nice, firm pulls before he loosens his grip again. “You don’t need that, do you baby? You like to get stroppy though, don’t you?”

Mycroft whimpers. 

“That’s okay,” Greg says. “You don’t have to tell me, because I know. I see you. You want to throw a little tantrum? Want me to give you what you want anyway, even though you’re such a brat?”

Now, that… Mycroft finds himself making an outraged little sound. He’s biting his lip too hard to form words. 

Greg laughs into his shoulder. “Just teasing,” he murmurs. “God. _God._ What’ve you done to me, huh?”

Mycroft wants more than this. He wants to hear more and he wants more touch and he wants more friction and he wants to be held tighter and _taken_ somehow. “Please,” he whispers, afraid to speak too loudly. “Please, please.”

“Please, what? I don’t know what you want if you don’t tell me.” Greg kisses him softly on the cheek. He’s got one arm under Mycroft, holding him close, so close. He’s half laid back, keeping Mycroft a little splayed over him as he reaches around and tortures him with his wet hand. 

He has to know. He has to know that it isn’t enough. His voice has that teasing edge, and Mycroft loves it but it makes him furious, too. He doesn't want to have to say it when they both already _know._ He can’t bring himself to say it all, he _can’t._

“That’s okay,” Greg goes on, nipping at the hinge of Mycroft’s jaw. “That’s alright, I can do this forever.”

Mycroft tries to thrust into the too-loose circle of Greg’s fist, but Greg anticipates him and holds him, his arm strong around him, keeps him from getting more friction than Greg wants to give. Mycroft grits his teeth and tries again, and again. 

And something must snap, or crack. Some sort of stress fracture in him gives way, and it just _happens._

 _“Daddy, please,”_ he begs. “Please, _please—”_

Greg jerks hard against him and his arm goes almost painfully tight around Mycroft’s body, spasming at the cracked words. Mycroft is practically sobbing, shaking with need. “Oh, jesus,” Greg gasps against Mycroft’s ear. “Oh, my god.” 

He takes his slippery hand away entirely. Mycroft, desperate and horrified, nearly flings himself away, betrayed and frantic. 

“Don’t move,” Greg says quickly. “Just. Don’t you fucking move.”

Mycroft shudders to a stop before he can even fully start the motion. There’s a click and a rude squeezing sound, and then Greg’s hand is back, sloppily spreading slick between Mycroft’s legs, over his sac and all over his groin. Greg reaches down and adjusts himself, slipping the hot length of him between Mycroft’s thighs. 

_“Squeeze,”_ he orders, and mercifully takes Mycroft in hands again. 

It’s the beginning of the end. That’s all Mycroft can think. He’s about to come, and he’s about to metamorphose into a completely new creature. This is going to ruin him.

Greg— Daddy. Mycroft tries it out in his head this time. It sends a sickly frisson of pleasure down through his belly. He loves it, god help him. His Daddy thrusts between Mycroft’s thighs and tells him he feels _so goddamn good, oh, baby, so good. That’s my sweet perfect boy._

Mycroft sobs and writhes, and Greg lets him, lets him push into his fist and rock against his cock, and Mycroft loses the thread. He goes off like warm champagne too quickly, humiliatingly quickly. He already came once tonight and still he only lasted all of half a dozen good firm pulls, and— 

“God,” Greg says, voice broken. His messy hand clamps around Mycroft’s hip, holding him still. He fucks between Mycroft’s legs, the head of his cock sliding right up against the sensitive space behind Mycroft’s balls. “Squeeze me tighter and say it again, _please_ baby, say it again.”

Mycroft, still heaving with aftershocks, tries his best to press his thighs more tightly together, and lets go of whatever stupid, pointless pride or puritanism he had left. “Daddy, Daddy, please fuck me. Fuck me, harder, Daddy—”

“Shit.” Greg _whimpers_ into the back of Mycroft’s neck. Both arms circle around him, hold him like a ragdoll as Greg’s hips rock him hard with one, two, three final hard thrusts. Wet heat spreads down Mycroft’s thighs, drips all over. Greg shudders and cries out behind him. “Oh, love,” he pants. “Oh god, you fucking...perfect—” His hips jerk again, and he falls silent, nothing but harsh breaths now, heavy enough to rock them both. 

Mycroft has never. Not once. Felt this good. This complete. He’s sure of that. He folds his arms over Greg’s - his Daddy’s? Oh, god - arms where they hold him. 

He closes his eyes against a sudden hot prickle. He breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some domesticity. Some more smut. Bon appetit.

Greg wakes to watery pre-dawn light pale beyond the sheers in the windows and the sound of a delivery truck clattering open in front of the restaurant across the street. A normal Sunday morning then, except Greg has a teenager in his bed. 

He waits to feel guilty, and doesn't. It worries him. But Mycroft is curled beside him, one pale shoulder peeking out from under the covers, his other arm tucked under his head. His hair is wildly mussed from sleep, and from Greg’s fingers the night before. His mouth is red and the skin around it is, too. Greg knows that under the sheets his lithe body is covered in stubble burn. Looking at him, all Greg feels is intensely protective and desperately attracted. 

He’d thought more than once the night before that if love at first sight is a real thing - which of course it isn’t - that would be the only name for what he was experiencing. 

He tries to tell himself in the cold light of day that it all seems like a load of shite, but it doesn't. He doesn't feel any differently. 

It’s completely mad. 

Mycroft had made moves to get out of the bed some time after two in the morning, and Greg had been baffled to learn that he expected to be kicked out after all they’d done together. “Stay,” Greg had said. “I’m off work tomorrow, I’ll make you breakfast.”

It had been so easy to hold him close and fall asleep, though it hadn’t happened right away. All told, Greg’s only been asleep a scant couple of hours. He’d had a hard time bringing himself to stop touching and kissing Mycroft long enough to do something as ridiculous as sleep. 

Mycroft’s got a sprinkle of tiny, toffee-colored freckles across his nose. Greg wants to count them. To kiss them. He’s thinking about it when Mycroft stretches in his sleep and wakes himself up. His eyes flutter sweetly, and he clears his throat before they adjust to the light, such as it is. Greg’s frozen, watching every minute detail as if he’s never seen another person wake up before. 

A startled little sound catches in Mycroft’s throat when he comes to full awareness and registers that Greg is there and awake. 

“Hi,” Greg whispers. “Sorry.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “For what?”

The thing is, Greg doesn't know. Something in his chest won’t settle down. Maybe this is the guilt setting in. Shame. Panic. Who knows. “Nothing,” Greg says, and reaches for him. 

Mycroft makes the most adorable sound as he burrows in close. His eyes had flashed in relief at the invitation. Greg gives him an extra tight squeeze, trying to let him know without words that he’s wanted right where he is. 

“Sleep well?”

Mycroft nods against his chest, but stays quiet. 

“Everything okay?”

“Of course.” The words are muffled in Greg’s skin. 

“Good.” 

Greg wonders if they’re going to just go back to sleep like this, which would be lovely, but after a drawn out, quiet stillness, Mycroft’s lips brush lightly over Greg’s breastbone in a sweet little nuzzle. 

“Mycroft,” Greg murmurs. 

“Mm?”

“Will you stay with me today? I don’t want you to leave.” _Ever. Fuck._

Mycroft leans back and smiles up at him, and Greg’s heart gives up entirely. 

  
  


***

  
  


They shower because they’re disgusting, and it stays relatively chaste. There’s a dodgy moment when Greg can’t help but tease soapy fingers down the cleft of Mycroft’s arse and the sound he gets for that is so hot he nearly decides that breakfast is a waste of time, nearly says, _Right, that’s it, get back in my bed so I can rim you til you can’t see straight._

But Greg perseveres. He wants to feed him. He wants to take care of him and show him that what happened last night wasn’t just sex. Because it wasn’t. Greg doesn't know where the hell this feeling has been all his life, but. Here it is. And he feels a primal need to keep it going. 

Mycroft’s hair is towel-dried and ruffled by Greg’s fingers, so he looks soft and a bit fluffy sitting at Greg’s kitchen island in borrowed clothes - Greg’s softest, most faded black t-shirt and a pair of sweats with a drawstring waist so they won’t slip off his slighter frame. Greg makes him tea and presses the mug into his hands and lips to his temple. 

“Eggs?” 

Mycroft nods. “Yes, please.” 

“Scrambled?” 

“Whatever you’re having.” 

He feels Mycroft’s sharp eyes on him while he cooks, knows he’s being examined and analyzed. He wonders if Mycroft’s going to show off for him some more, like he did at the pub. That conversation feels miles away now. 

“Well?” Greg asks after he pours the beaten eggs into the pan and lowers the heat. 

“Well what?”

Greg turns, but keeps stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon. Mycroft quirks an eyebrow at him. “I just feel a little watched, is all,” he says. “Something on your mind?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says a little snottily, and then doesn't elaborate. He takes a sip of tea, eyes cool and face calm. It’s a shocking turn around from the night before. Hell, from fifteen minutes previous. 

Greg stirs, and stares at him, and wrinkles his nose. “What’s the plan here?” he says, trying to convey concern and confusion and not irritation - though there’s some of that. “Are you a completely different person this morning, or…” 

“I—” Mycroft blinks. “Don’t you _want_ me to be?” 

“Why would I?”

Mycroft sits back in his seat, clearly stymied by this. “Because it’s not… I’m not a _child,_ I don’t want to be your… I don’t want to be taken care of like a—” He visibly grits his teeth. “I don’t know why. Why don’t you explain why you _wouldn’t.”_

“Sure,” Greg says. He turns to the stove and lowers the heat even more, stirring and stirring to buy himself some time to get his head together. The eggs don’t take long to reach the right consistency - almost custardy, really buttery and soft. He dumps them out onto two plates and then grabs the half a loaf of bread left in the box and pops two slices into the toaster oven. 

He turns back to Mycroft and leans back against the bench. “Look,” he says. “I didn’t treat you like an actual child last night, did I?”

Mycroft raises two mocking eyebrows. “I would hope not.”

Greg shoots him his most unimpressed look, which has been known to snap even the most recalcitrant Sergeants out of a strop. “What is so wrong with letting your guard down? Why wouldn’t I want that from you? Why would I only want that in bed?” 

“For all I know, the ‘ _I’ve never said that in bed, don’t make a habit of this’_ persona is an act.” 

“If you’re so brilliant,” Greg says, “you should be able to figure out that it isn’t, the same way you figured my age at the pub.” 

Mycroft’s eyes drop to his tea. 

“That’s what I thought.” Greg turns when the toaster oven dings “Butter? Jam?” 

“Whatever you’re—” 

Greg snaps the little oven door shut and smacks the butter knife in his hand down on the worktop. “Right,” he says. “That’s enough of that.” He turns and crosses to the island. He pushes Mycroft’s tea aside and reaches for him, hauls him up by the shoulder of the too-big t-shirt, and kisses him good and firm and bossy. 

Mycroft groans. It’s a little broken and strangled, but it’s low and sexy, too. Mycroft’s speaking voice is light, his accent refined. But Greg thinks it’s gotta be at least part affectation because that groan has bass in it, and all Greg wants to do is hear it again. He wants to draw the man out of him, the one that’s hiding behind the nervous vestiges of a boy, the one who wants to, maybe, _feel_ smaller than he is. 

Greg gentles his hand, untwisting his fingers from the shirt and pets at Mycroft’s shoulder through the cotton. “You’re alright, you know,” he says when the kiss breaks. “Be yourself. Okay? I like you. I like you so—” he kisses him once, softly. “So much.” Kisses him again, even softer. “Just as you are.” 

“You don’t know that,” Mycroft protests. 

“Okay, maybe not.” Greg grins. “But do you want butter or jam on your toast?”

Mycroft smiles, and there it is - there’s the sweetness Greg knows is in there. “Both, please.”

  
  


***

  
  


They eat, and Greg coaxes some conversation out of him. Gets him to open up just a little. 

Mycroft has an older brother. Much older. “He was already at boarding school when I was born,” he says. “I was a bit of a mistake, really. My parents were old when they had me. Compared to the average, that is. I only ever saw Sherlock in the summers, and then he went to Uni and that stopped.”

“How old were you then?”

“Nine or ten, I suppose.” 

Greg’s pretty sure Mycroft knows exactly how old he was when his older brother fell off the map of his young life, but he doesn't push. “What’s he like?” 

“Unwell,” Mycroft replies. “He has a drug problem that he only sometimes manages to control. His mental health is poor. He lives here in London, but he’s hard to reach and he moves frequently.” 

“You worry about him, huh?”

Mycroft takes a careful breath. “...yes,” he says. “I always have.” 

He’s so _young._ Greg wants to say that it isn’t his _job_ to worry about people who should’ve been good examples for him. But that’s not his place and he doesn't know the ins and outs of Mycroft’s family. “That’s got to be hard on you,” Greg says instead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

The endearment helps. Greg watches it land like a balm on whatever had Mycroft jangled once they were dressed. One side of his nervous mouth ticks up in a shy smile. “I’m used to it,” he says, quietly and steadily. “But thank you. No one has ever said as much.”

 _Poor sweet boy,_ Greg thinks, and marvels - not for the first time - at how easily these words spring to mind, how easy it was to say them last night. “Do you want to go somewhere today? Go out?” 

Mycroft shakes his head slowly. “No, I don’t. At all.” 

Greg chuckles and clears their plates off the island. “I’m not having sex with you at seven in the morning. I’d be done for the day. You know, old bones and all.”

Mycroft scoffs. “You are not _elderly,”_ he says. “Stop making a joke of it. You’re older, not _old._ You could absolutely fuck me through the mattress more than once in a day. You came close last night.” 

Greg turns from the sink, gaping at the cheek of him. “I did not.”

“You were hard again before we went to sleep,” Mycroft says bluntly. “You could have.” 

Greg leaves the dirty dishes and crosses back to him, puts two fingers under his chin to tilt his mouth up. “Young man,” he murmurs, “you don’t know that.” 

“You’re not even going to _try?”_

Greg snorts and kisses him, chaste and firm, before backing away. “We’ll see. If you’re a good boy, maybe.” He grins at the mix of outrage and arousal in Mycroft’s expression. “Maybe I’ll just see how many times I can get _you_ off. Three times last night, ever had more than that in a day?”

Mycroft scrambles out of his seat and follows Greg into the lounge. “Yes,” he says. “By myself.” 

That shouldn’t be hot, but Greg can picture it and it really, really is. He drops down onto the sofa and gestures for Mycroft to come to him. “How many was it?”

Mycroft settles in Greg’s lap, straddling him and holding on loosely to his shoulders. “Six,” he says. “But that was a few years ago, I doubt I could now.” 

A few years ago he was— Greg slams the door firmly on that. Can’t think about that right now. 

“Well,” he says, taking a deep, calming breath. “Guess we’ll see.”

Mycroft rocks a little in his lap. “I suppose we will.” 

Greg laughs and holds him closer. Presses his forehead to his chest. Mycroft pets his hair, and it’s so _sweet._ “Let’s take a nap right here first,” Greg says. “We slept all of three hours last night, and I might not be elderly but I absolutely cannot run on that little _and_ meet your demands all day long.” 

“You don’t know that I’m demanding,” Mycroft protests, but he does snuggle down into the sofa when Greg tips them sideways, sandwiching himself between the back cushions and Mycroft’s body.

“You absolutely are demanding,” Greg says with a yawn. “I can tell.” 

Mycroft’s long fingers thread through Greg’s hair. “Go to sleep, old man,” he teases. “Take your nap.”

But he sounds sleepy, too. Greg smiles and breathes in the smell of his own shower gel on all that soft skin, and drops off between one heartbeat and the next. 

  
  


***

  
  


He wakes with the weight of another person on top of him, which is glorious, and the gentle rocking of a half-hard cock against his hip. 

“You little minx,” he mutters, not even bothering to open his eyes. 

“Is this alright?” 

_“Yeah.”_ He keeps his eyes closed still, and gets both hands over the firm roundness of Mycroft’s undulating arse. “How long have you been—” 

“Just a minute or so,” Mycroft murmurs. “I woke up and I could feel you and…” He sighs. “I’m sorry.” He doesn't sound sorry at all. 

Greg squeezes a little harder than he normally might, digging his fingers into the firm flesh of his cheeks, pulling him in more firmly and rocking his own pelvis up to meet him in a slow, dirty grind. He wants to keep it lazy. He wants to show Mycroft how this can be. The kid’s drunk on the realization that sex can be as good as he’d been hoping, so of course he wants to jump right back into it. If he’s honest with himself, so does Greg. It’s been years since he had anything approaching really good sex, and he’s not sure he’s ever had sex quite like this before. 

Still, eager as he is, Greg misses this sort of thing, too. And he’s not sure if this is his only chance with Mycroft, if one or both of them will come to their senses at the end of the day. He wants to get everything he can out of it, give everything he can to Mycroft in just one day. 

“Do you like this?” He asks, face tucked into Mycroft’s throat. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. It’s all feeling, and it’s so good. 

“I _love_ this,” Mycroft admits, and he sounds a little surprised. 

It makes Greg smile into his skin. “Me too,” he says. “Tell me all the things you need me to do to you today.” 

“I—” Mycroft goes still a moment. “I don’t kn—” 

Greg rocks him firmly, prompts him with his hands to resume a slow roll of his body against Greg’s. “Yes you do,” he says. “You’ve been waiting for someone you liked. You said so yourself. You’ve been fantasizing. You have a list. You probably have a _spreadsheet.”_

Mycroft laughs, and Greg does open his eyes and tip his head back to see. God, it’s gorgeous. He’s so cute, his eyes are so bloody _blue,_ and when he laughs or when he smiles for real, they practically sparkle. For such a young person, Mycroft seems awfully accustomed to having some fairly big walls up. Greg has the feeling that what Mycroft did, coming over and talking to Greg in the pub, then deciding to stay, was a huge leap for him to take. He’d struggled with it even after he made the decision, too, leading on the offense with that absolutely vicious picking apart of Greg’s life. 

And then he’d forgotten himself this morning, too, once they had left the bubble of the bed and the quiet intimacy of the shower. He’d gotten a little nervous and gone cool and blank. 

Greg wants to keep him laughing and gasping all day. He slips one hand up the back of the t-shirt, and another down the back of the sweatpants. 

Mycroft moans softly and his hips hitch a little off-rhythm. “Your hands,” he says. 

Greg smiles against his lips. “What about them?”

“They’re big.”

“Your hands aren’t exactly small.” 

“Your fingers are thicker. _Much_ thicker than mine.” Mycroft sighs, a touch dreamily. “They feel so good on me.”

“Oh now that was good,” Greg murmurs, pleased. “I like that, tell me what else feels good.”

“Kiss me?” 

Greg does, and Mycroft opens up for him right away, just beautifully. Greg sucks on his tongue, fucks his own obscenely into Mycroft’s mouth, and lets himself groan and sigh as much as he so badly wants to at every tentative bit of pushback Mycroft gives him. He feels an odd sense of pride when his baby presses back and sees how much leeway Greg will give him. He gives him lots of it, retreating and letting Mycroft chase him, letting him shove into Greg’s mouth. Mycroft’s hands wind up tangled in Greg’s hair where it’s longest on top, not pulling or doing anything even remotely forceful, just holding Greg where he wants him.

 _God, yes,_ Greg thinks, humping up against Mycroft’s thrusting hips and encouraging him with little sounds uttered around his tongue and between their grasping lips. 

It eventually does break, heavy breathing stilling their hips while they work to drag in deeper pulls of air. 

“That felt good,” Mycroft tells him, his hooded eyes shining with cheekiness. “Just so you know.” 

Greg growls and rolls them, trying to shove Mycroft under him on the sofa. It goes sideways somehow, and they crash to the floor, the air punching out of Greg’s lungs when Mycroft’s elbow ends up in his gut. 

“Jesus,” Greg yelps. 

Mycroft grunts on impact and then freezes. His arm is trapped between them, and Greg’s trying to recover from the impact with his forehead pressed to Mycroft’s collarbone, which begins to shake under him. Mycroft is _giggling,_ and it quickly spins entirely out of control, the motion of it shaking Greg with him. Greg presses up onto his elbows so Mycroft can get his arm free. He lets Greg catch his hand in one of his own and press it to the floor by his head. Greg does the same with the other and feels laughter bubble up in his own chest. 

“Smooth,” Mycroft manages after several false starts that dissolve into those adorable little giggles before they can become words. 

“Listen—” Greg laughs, buries it in a kiss. “Listen here, you little brat—” 

Mycroft’s laughter stutters, and he bucks up against him, wrists pinned to the floor by Greg’s hands. “Please,” he breathes. His eyes go hotter as he tests the strength of the grip on his wrists. “Please, Daddy, I want… I want to come.” 

Greg groans and presses a hot kiss to the sensitive spot under Mycroft’s left ear. “Oh, _good boy.”_

“Yes?” Mycroft hitches up again, searching for friction against Greg’s thigh. 

“Oh, yeah.” Greg releases one of Mycroft’s hands so his own is free to untie the sweatpants and yank them down just far enough to free Mycroft’s leaking cock. “Oh, jesus, look at you.” 

“This will be number one,” Mycroft reminds him. “I want seven. I’m going to beat my record.”

“Yeah you fucking are,” Greg growls, not bothering to even consider if that could _possibly_ be feasible. He slithers down Mycroft’s body and closes his mouth around that gorgeous, delicious cock. He’s not planning to drag it out. If his baby wants seven, they need to get a bloody move on. 

It takes no time at all. Mycroft comes, whimpering and twisting under Greg, and Greg swallows every last drop of it with relish. 

  
  


***

  
  


“Tell me about being a D.C.I.,” Mycroft says a while later, and it’s a demand, not a request. 

Greg huffs. They’re on the sofa with the telly droning on in the background, some tacky sitcom or other, but they’ve hardly paid attention to it at all. Greg has his feet propped up on the coffee table (“I don’t have shoes on,” he’d pointed out in response to Mycroft’s raised eyebrow. “Besides, I can do what I want; it’s _my_ flat.”) and Mycroft is curled into him, his long legs folded in an A-shape over Greg’s lap, his head propped up on his fist, arm perched on the back of the sofa. Greg can - and has - lean in and kiss him any time he wants. He does that now. 

“It’s boring,” he says after. “There isn’t much to tell. I’m a glorified babysitter, really.” 

“Oh,” Mycroft says thoughtfully. “So that’s why you’re so good with me, hm?”

Greg laughs, and so does Mycroft, his pretty eyes doing that sparkle thing Greg likes so much. “Yeah, maybe,” Greg teases in return. “But yeah, that’s all. Placating SOCO, placating the D.I.’s and their teams, placating the superintendent. Telling everyone to play nice. And paperwork. Lots, and lots of paperwork.” 

He sighs and leaves off, not wanting to sound curmudgeonly or anything. Bitter. He does feel a bit bitter, though. He tells himself to let it go. 

“You preferred being a D.I.,” Mycroft says, and it’s a statement not a question. “Or really, I think you probably preferred it when you were a sergeant.” 

That’s fucking _accurate._ Greg can only hum his agreement with it. He wants to see what else Mycroft might have to say about it. 

Mycroft seems to realize that. He lets the hand that’s been holding up his head fall down to Greg’s shoulder, rubbing gently. “I didn’t analyze much to figure it out,” he says, tilting his head in closer.

Greg stares down at his own lap, and Mycroft’s knobby knees under the jersey of the sweatpants. 

“I really didn’t,” Mycroft insists. “It’s just… well, I can’t help that I see what I see and translate it for what it is. So I suppose yes, I _did_ analyze you. But it wasn’t intentional. It’s just that you’re so… I don’t know. You’re fit, you know, not just for your age— don’t _snort_ at me, I’m not taking the piss out of you, _please,_ grow _up.”_

Greg laughs at that, letting his head fall back against the sofa. “Go on,” he prompts. 

“You’re fit. You clearly run, at the very least. I’d bet you used to cycle, too. I’m not going to explain how I know, I don’t _feel like it,_ so don’t ask.” Mycroft leans in and knocks his head into Greg’s gently. “The point is, you keep busy. You keep moving. You were a bit of a workaholic before, I think, but lately you don’t see the point, and it’s because you don’t like being at a desk so much.”

Greg takes in a long, centering breath. “Has anyone ever told you,” he begins. 

Mycroft cuts him off. “I know it’s off-putting.” 

“That isn’t what I was going to say.” Greg catches him by the wrist before he can move away. “I was going to say that you are bloody _fantastic._ That’s _amazing,_ what you can do.” 

Mycroft blinks rapidly, then shakes his head. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” 

Mycroft just stares at him, disbelieving. 

Greg reaches out to touch the side of his confused face. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.” 

Mycroft blinks again, longer this time, and turns his face away. Greg watches his profile instead. 

“Who _are_ you,” Mycroft says, “and where have you _been?”_

Greg snorts. “Oh, you know. Here and there. Come on.” He scoops Mycroft’s legs off his lap and sinks off the sofa and onto the floor. “It’s time to get working on your second mind-blowing orgasm of the day.” 

Mycroft laughs - giggles, really, and it’s fucking adorable - and spreads his knees easily. “Mind-blowing?”

Greg rubs his hands over Mycroft’s thighs and watches the bulge inside the sweatpants grow right before his eyes. He grins up at him. “Oh, yeah,” he says.

  
  


***

  
  


Greg shoves Mycroft off his lap in order to end a dispute over whether or not Mycroft should move of his own volition, a little while later. 

“You’re going to kiss my lips off,” Greg teases as he does it. “And it’s Sunday. If I don’t throw some laundry in now and hoover the carpets, it won't get done for another two weeks. I’m in a training next week.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay someone to do those things for you if you come back here,” he says. 

Greg barks a laugh and rounds on him, leans over and brings them face to face. He holds himself up with a hand on the back of the sofa next to Mycroft’s head, and mock-glares at him, nose to nose. “Fuck. Off,” he says succinctly, then adds, “you rich little brat.”

Mycroft grins and steals one last kiss. “Understood,” he drawls, and lets Greg hurry off to get all of that done. 

He works at lightning speed, hauling his things to the washer in the kitchen and not even bothering to separate them as he normally would, and then running the vacuum over the bedroom and hallway like he’s being timed. 

When Greg emerges and parks the hoover in the doorway to the lounge, Mycroft looks up from another perusal of his photos and knick-knacks. Greg crosses the room to peek over his shoulder. “My sister,” he supplies. “She’s a couple years older than me. Has a few kids.” 

And then…

Maybe it’s because Greg’s been gone for longer than ten minutes, and Mycroft’s had time to forget himself again, or maybe it’s really just a case of running away at the mouth, but Mycroft makes a couple of observations too many, starting with the fact that Laura’s children - there are four - have three separate fathers, and her own daddy issues almost certainly contributed to that situation, and ending with a blunt statement on the state of her marriage to husband number two at the time of the photo. 

Greg rears back. He’s not _shocked,_ exactly. It’s not like he isn’t aware of this ability Mycroft has. 

_Christ,_ Greg thinks. _It’s been less than twenty four hours. How are you fooling yourself into thinking you know him well?_

It’s just that he’s… kind of pissed off, actually. Does he know that his sister has had a rocky time of it? Yes. Has he privately had thoughts about what all that means about her - about _them -_ when it comes to the way they were brought up? Obviously. 

_“Hey,”_ Greg snaps before he can stop himself. “That’s not on, don’t— you can’t just talk about my sister like that.”

Mycroft blinks at him. “I wasn’t judging,” he says, 

“Oh, you _weren’t?”_ And Greg knows he’s operating off his own assumptions based on Mycroft’s very nice shoes and his public school vowels and his general air of repression and bullshit. All of which, of course, add up to an incredibly privileged upbringing, to say nothing of the ‘suite of rooms’ in his uncle’s home and the high-dollar education. Greg’s hackles are coming up because of all of that, as much as they’re coming up because of the bluntness. 

“I _wasn’t,”_ Mycroft snaps. “What, don’t know the difference between fact and opinion? You’re a _detective.”_

“Don’t be a _dick,”_ Greg grits from between his teeth. “Do you not realize how rude you’re—” He draws up short. 

Mycroft’s gaze is steady, but there’s something vulnerable there. 

“You don’t,” Greg ventures after a moment. “Do you? Or you do, but you need to keep a tight grip on your mouth, huh?”

Mycroft narrows his eyes. “You don’t know me that well, just so you know. You’re still angry with me. So what are you going to do about it?”

“This is what I’m doing about it,” Greg replies, a little blank because he has no idea how the conversation went so hard in this direction. “I’m telling you, don’t be a dick.”

“That’s it?”

Greg shrugs, lifting his hands with open palms. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Mycroft’s mouth twists. He looks away. “Well,” he says, not quite a drawl - more a reptilian hiss despite the lack of sibilant sounds to help it along. “You could always do what you said last night and _take me in hand._ Couldn’t you, _Da—”_

Greg claps a hand over his mouth. He takes _great_ pains to do it as gently as he can and still shut him up. He pauses, searching Mycroft’s pale eyes for a sign he doesn't find. All he sees now is cold fury. He’s pretty sure though that underneath that is a lot of insecurity and a total inability to deal with being told no like this. Greg takes a breath. 

He keeps his hand there over the lower half of Mycroft’s face and says, “Absol _utely_ not.” He lets his hand slide away. “We’re not doing that right now. We’re not doing that when I’m pissed off at you, or when you want me to _stop_ being pissed off at you.”

Mycroft gives him a slow blink.

“Got it?”

Greg holds his breath. Mycroft takes a half step back. 

“Perhaps I should go,” Mycroft mutters, moving to step around him. 

Greg catches him by the hand. “Don’t,” he says softly. “Please, don’t.” 

Mycroft freezes. “I didn’t mean to be rude.” 

“I know.” Greg squeezes his hand. “But you can’t just explain it away like that. Not just with me. That must get you into some scrapes from time to time.”

Mycroft’s shoulders drop from around his ears and go from tense and braced for rejection to a dejected slump in the blink of an eye. He sighs. “Not lately,” he says. “I’ve learned restraint, of course, over time. I don’t know what it is about you that… I simply forgot to keep a hold on it. And I’m… sorry.”

Greg feels himself melting, but he’s already tugging Mycroft back towards him before he realizes it. “Thanks,” he says deliberately. “For the apology, I mean.” 

_You felt safe and forgot,_ Greg thinks wildly. _Didn’t you?_

Mycroft still isn’t meeting his eyes, so Greg tips his face with a gentle hand. “Hey.” 

He finally looks up at Greg, half-wincing. “I really… I didn’t mean to be… I don’t mean to be anything. I honestly _don’t_ judge.” 

Greg tugs him in. “I hear you, sweetheart.” He cups Mycroft’s cheek. “I’m already over it. Just… calm down.” 

Mycroft huffs. “Sure, yes, I’ll do that right away.”

Greg gives in and kisses him, soft and sweet. “I’m not done with you, I hope you realize. Just because I had to get a couple of things done, it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have _much_ rathered stay with you.” 

Mycroft nods silently. “I understand,” he says. “I promise I didn’t mind. That’s not… I wasn’t trying to be rude to you. I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t want to do that.” 

“Come to the bedroom with me,” Greg murmurs. “I’ll show you. I’m not angry, and I know you’ve been trying so hard to be good. It’s alright.” 

_I love you,_ Greg thinks stupidly. It doesn't even shock him. He doesn't bother to shut it down. Everything about this day is a fantasy so far, so why shouldn’t he let himself think it. _I love you, and you really are safe here. And now I’ll know what it means when you talk like that. I’m sorry I didn’t already—_

He shuts himself up inside his own head by pulling gently on Mycroft’s hand. “C’mon.” 

Mycroft follows, and Greg strokes his thumb over the back of his hand. That would have to cover all the swirling thoughts in his scrambled head. At least until he could put hands on the rest of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no there are way more feels swirled round this than I planned. Oh well, chocolate in my peanut butter and all that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I am a very well adjusted human person.

Greg’s got a sweaty, flushed, desperate boy in his lap, and three fingers shoved hot and slick inside said boy’s tight arsehole, and he’s completely forgotten that they were arguing not twenty minutes ago. 

Mycroft is grinding down on those three fingers, each shove of his hips matching a hard gust of air out of his narrow chest and a soft _“oh,”_ from between his stubble-burnt lips. 

“You’re fucking _beautiful,”_ Greg squeezes out of his seizing lungs. He feels a little panicked and overwhelmed by that fact, and with every shudder of Mycroft’s body on top of him, he feels even worse. Or better. God, he can’t tell. Greg hasn’t been this out of the loop from his own mind and body since his twenties. He doesn't know what to do with his own pounding blood. He can’t control the things he says. “Come on, my sweet boy, ride my hand for me. Show me how good you can take it.” 

“Fuck,” Mycroft grunts, shoving down harder. “Fuck, Daddy, I love— I love it.” 

Greg slams his shoulders back against the headboard in an effort to keep his shit together. That word just falls right out of his pretty mouth now, doesn't it?

“Mycroft,” he grinds out. 

They’re both completely stripped down this time, and Greg is so hard it’s bordering on painful. God, he wants to come. Preferably inside the grasping arsehole currently clenching around half his hand. But he really isn’t particularly sure of his ability to come more than once, and it’s barely noon. This is only Mycroft’s third of the day. Greg wants to see if he can hold off a little longer, maybe pour himself out around the fourth or fifth. 

“Want you to come,” Mycroft gasps, like he’s read Greg’s mind. “Daddy, I want it. On me. On my—” He pauses to sob a little as he rocks his hips just right on Greg’s hand. “On my face, please, please, please—” 

_Jesus tap-dancing_ **_Christmas._ **What’s Greg supposed to do? The stream of filthy talk out of Mycroft was already a lot for him to take.

Desperate for some leverage in more ways than one, Greg tips Mycroft off him, off his lap, and shoves him back onto the mattress. He follows him down, stuffing his fingers back inside him before kissing him hard and deep. 

Greg sits up again and twists his wrist, closes his free hand roughly around Mycroft’s pretty cock, and jerks him off hard and fast. He crooks the fingers that are inside him to hit his prostate over and over, in time with the movement of the other hand. 

In no time, Mycroft’s shouting and coming in delicate pearls on his own belly - it’s not much at this point, but the tremors that wrack his body certainly are a lot. Greg pulls his fingers out, roughly the way Mycroft clearly likes it, but with care, and gentles his grip on his sweet boy’s cock even as he’s knee walking up the mattress, even as he’s straddling those long, pale legs. 

“Please, please, please,” Mycroft begs in a whisper.

Greg winds up with his thighs splayed over Mycroft’s chest. He strokes himself with his come-splattered hand and watches the arch of Mycroft’s elegant neck. He shudders. “Baby—” He grunts. “Oh, baby, here it comes.” 

Mycroft pants under him and opens his mouth and eyes, his red tongue slipping out over his lower lip, waiting. 

Greg’s gone. Greg’s done. It’s over. There’s no _way_ he’ll come again today, or possibly ever again. His orgasm tears out of him like a monster, the thick strings of come landing on Mycroft’s soft cheeks and his bruised lips, on his wet tongue and his straining neck. 

“Mycroft,” Greg keens. “Darling, I—” he spasms and another shot of come lands in a splatter on Mycroft’s chin. “Oh, god, take it all.” 

Mycroft’s tongue sweeps out and tries, licking away whatever it can reach. Greg, unthinking and completely outside of his own body at this point, reaches down with the hand not squeezing his own prick, and swipes come from Mycroft’s cheek right into his mouth. 

Mycroft whines and sucks, his velvet tongue cleaning Greg’s fingers without even the slightest hesitation. 

Greg finally lets go of himself, his pruny wet hand landing on the pillow beside Mycroft’s head. He lowers himself shakily to take a kiss, careful not to fall on top of Mycroft when he does. Mycroft’s mouth tastes like come, and skin, and the tea they drank before they argued. 

They kiss, and Greg falls down beside him on the mattress, knocking their foreheads together. 

He doesn't care if Mycroft’s the rudest person who’s ever lived. That was worth it. That was worth anything. 

  
  


***

  
  


They take a bath, sitting face to face in the hot water. The tub had been the main draw of this flat once the bedsit he’d taken during the divorce had lost its limited charm. He’d just been promoted, and he’d had a little extra money to put toward rent, but not so much that he could expect a ton of space in central London. The place is cramped everywhere but the kitchen and the loo, and most of that is taken up by the tub. 

It’s big enough that Greg can tug Mycroft closer, laying his legs over Greg’s, and scoop handfuls of warm water over his shoulders while they talk. It is _not_ big enough for injury-free tub sex, which he told Mycroft sternly when those shrewd eyes had lit with possibilities. Besides, Greg wants to talk to him some more, and post-orgasm Mycroft is willing. 

“My brother and I are both very skilled in deduction,” Mycroft tells Greg, his damp reddish hair sticking up in the back and slicking away from his forehead. He looks even younger like this, and Greg aches with it. He doesn't know what to think about the age thing. He doesn't know if that’s what does it for him, or if it’s just the prickle-covered vulnerability, which he thinks Mycroft would have, on some level, even if he were older. “He has never bothered to learn tact,” Mycroft continues. “He doesn't see the point. Our parents… our parents were very permissive with him when he was young. Anyway, that’s what my uncle says.” 

“They weren’t like that with you.”

Mycroft snorts. “Oh, absolutely not. They had learned their lesson. By the time I was seven, my brother had gone entirely, as they say, off the rails. It scared them straight, so to speak, and suddenly they cared what I said and did. I went to boarding school much younger than Sherlock had, and to a _far_ stricter environment.” He shrugs. “I didn’t mind, really. I do well with order and clear, defined expectations. It helped.”

Greg runs a wet thumb along Mycroft’s smooth brow, right where the little pinch of upset had been earlier. It’s not there now, but Greg senses a certain tension in Mycroft as he’s talking. “Helped with what?”

“With… well.” Mycroft sighs. “I was easily overwhelmed as a child. My parents thought I was just… ‘weepy’ and ‘sensitive.’ It wasn’t that, it was that everything was simply too _much._ I understood so much more than they realized, and sometimes I didn’t understand what I noticed, but I noticed _everything._ I was simply… unable to process it all. It was painful and frightening.” He leans into Greg’s light touches. “Being sent to the middle of nowhere to attend a small, highly regimented educational program gave me a chance to catch up to myself. It made me better and sharper, and I acclimated quickly to the mean politics that come with being trapped with a mob of pre- and adolescent boys.”

Greg winces. “Oh, no.”

“We made _Lord of the Flies_ look like a bedtime fairytale,” Mycroft jokes, and he really is _joking,_ impish little smile pulling at the corner of his lip, eyebrows raised. “It was better than the day school in Sussex, at any rate.”

“Poor fancy lad,” Greg teases, trailing his finger down the bridge of Mycroft’s nose. “So is boarding school really like they say?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes at Greg’s wiggling eyebrows. Greg drops his fingertip from the tip of his nose to the bow of his upper lip. Mycroft’s tongue darts out to swipe over it. Greg keeps the finger moving down his chin so he can speak. 

“If it is, I wouldn’t know,” Mycroft says. “I was out of there by the time I turned thirteen, and then it was a matter of submitting to one final round of testing, endless meetings with various institutions of higher education and their staff psychologists and dons and deans and what have you. And a year after that I was living with Uncle Rudy and taking classes at UCL.” 

Greg’s finger has found its way to Mycroft’s defined collarbones. He traces it back and forth along the ridge of bone and dip of freckled skin. “At least your uncle was there to keep an eye?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “My uncle is rarely home. Or. _Was_ rarely home. His health has been poor for the last year or so, so he’s in residence more often than not these days. It’s nice; I like my uncle. He’s like me.”

“Very, very smart?”

Mycroft smiles, a little sly. “That,” he says, “and _very_ gay, and _quite_ twisted.” 

Greg doesn't know what that means, and isn’t sure if he _wants_ to know, lest he have to kill Mycroft’s uncle. 

“Oh for—” Mycroft bats Greg’s hand away and he splashes him in the face with bath water. “Don’t be disgusting, he’s my _great_ uncle, he’s in his mid _nineties,_ and he’s just got a ladies’ shoe fetish, not a taste for incest. _Good lord, man.”_

Greg laughs and splashes back. “Shut up,” he says. “If certain genres of literature are right, you posh lot are full of nasty family secrets, how should I know what very gay and quite twisted means when you say it like that?”

Mycroft shoves up to his knees in the tub and squeezes himself into Greg’s lap, water sloshing everywhere, soaking the bath mat and creeping along the tile in puddles. “We _do_ love our nasty family secrets,” he stage-whispers. “We have _so many of them._ I’ll tell you some, sometime. You’ll be so shocked, your hair will finish turning white.”

“My hair isn’t going to turn white,” Greg informs him. “Sorry to disappoint. My grandad on mum’s side looked just like this. Silver til the day he died.” 

“My family would turn it white,” Mycroft assures him. “Don’t worry, I’ll still like it.” 

Greg huffs and wraps his arms around to hold him a little closer. “You like my hair?”

Mycroft’s mouth presses sweetly to Greg’s temple, where his grey’s the lightest. “Oh, yes.” He noses there and brings his hands up to card through the rest. “I love it. I didn't want you to think I had a fetish, because I don’t, it just suits you so well.” 

Greg tips his head back to look at him through content, half-closed eyes. “Thank you,” he says. “You’re sweet.”

Mycroft snorts. “I’m really not, but whatever gets you off.” He leans forward to set his teeth to Greg’s jaw. “Daddy.” 

Greg’s brain screeches and scratches to a halt, then very quickly stutters back to life as he blinks through the rush of bone-deep, satisfied arousal that one ridiculous word sends melting through him. 

Once he recovers, he dumps Mycroft back into the water and reaches for the soap. “Come here, you little brat,” he says, and from there it’s a lot more splashing, much less talking. 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg dresses him, and Mycroft lets him, looking both amused and turned on in equal measure as Greg crouches at his feet and instructs him to step into a fresh pair of sweats. 

“The others weren’t dirty,” Mycroft says. 

“So now two pairs of my sweats and two of my t-shirts will smell like you when you leave,” Greg says, delighting in the blush that stains Mycroft’s cheeks and creeps down toward his chest. Greg ties the drawstring at the waist and then nuzzles along the thin treasure trial of reddish hair that disappears under the cotton. Mycroft’s stomach growls. Greg grins up at him. “Hungry, sweetheart?”

“Oh,” Mycroft blinks. “No, I’m quite alright. I don’t eat lunch, usually.” 

That’s… “Baby, your stomach tells me otherwise. It’s after one, and we’ve been… well. Breakfast has burned off by now.”

Mycroft shrugs. “Alright, but I still don’t feel the need to eat. I’m not hungry.”

Greg pushes up off the floor, rising to his feet. “Why does that seem like a load of bull to me? You’re nineteen, you should still be eating like a horse.” 

Mycroft laughs and slips by him out the bedroom door, snagging the t-shirt out of Greg’s hands as he goes. “Not all of us can eat like barn animals, regardless of age. Maybe some people my age do, but if I indulge like that I put on weight by the minute. By the _mouthful,_ really. It sticks to me.” 

Greg shakes his head as he follows. He catches Mycroft round the waist, drawing him up short in the doorway to the lounge, and plucks the t-shirt out of his hands. “I’m putting this on you in a minute. Don’t deprive me. But listen. You’re not going to… not that it matters, but eating lunch after half a day of constant sex on a light breakfast isn’t going to do anything to the shape of you. You _need_ food, baby, let me make you something.”

Mycroft wriggles out of his grip. “I thought we weren’t doing that when one of us is pissed off.” 

“You’re pissed off at me?” Greg raises both eyebrows. “Why?”

“Fine, not pissed off. Annoyed.” Mycroft crosses his arms over his bare torso. “Your lounge is covered in photographs. You’re in plenty of them, including at least three from when you were a teenager. You appear to have always looked—” Here, Mycroft gestures with his hand all up and down the length of Greg’s body. “Like _that._ You don’t know anything about what will or won’t change anything, or whether it matters or not.” 

Greg pauses to parse that. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Alright, I’m sorry. Come here.” Mycroft doesn't budge. “Come here,” Greg repeats, drawing out the second word. “I’m gonna hug you, _come here.”_

Mycroft’s placid expression twitches, then quickly crumbles away, and he does take several steps back toward Greg. He lets Greg reel him in by the hand the rest of the way. 

“For the record,” Greg says to the top of his head. “I was very spotty for a while there, and I had a voice like a broken squeezebox for the longest time. My vocal chords would _not_ get with the program. You’d have cringed every time I opened my mouth. People did. Who gave you shit for your weight?”

“Everyone,” Mycroft sighs. “Look, I have no desire to have a heart to heart about this. I don’t need you to perform therapy on my insecurities. I know what I look like, but for whatever reason you seem to like it, and in the past plenty of others have expressed some level of interest. So it can’t be all bad. And I’ll remind you, _again,_ that I’m not _actually_ a child and you are not _actually_ my father, so trying to force me to eat when—” 

_“Jesus,”_ Greg cries. “Will you _stop?_ For someone who gets all worked up about being treated like a child, you’re doing a pretty great job of using a lot of words just to say: _I don’t wanna, and you can’t make me._ Now let me put this bloody t-shirt on you so I can go get you a fucking banana. Which you will eat. And after the next time I make you come, you’re having a sandwich and that’s the end of it.” 

There’s a silence. And then a little half-laugh. “Sir, yes sir,” Mycroft says, but it’s said softly, amused and maybe a little touched. 

Greg steps forward and yanks the new shirt down over Mycroft’s flushed face. “Get your arms through, brat.” 

He does, and then he submits to a tight hug, tucking his face against Greg’s neck. 

“Thank you,” Greg sighs. “Alright, go sit down. I think we need to watch a film or something. You need to relax.” 

Mycroft mutters something about Greg being the one needing to relax, but when Greg meets him in the lounge a minute later, he eats the banana without complaint. During the movie, he lets Greg spread his palm flat over his belly, t-shirt rucked up to his ribs. Eventually he puts his own hand on top, delicate fingers fitting in between Greg’s. 

Greg keeps still and quiet, and enjoys the feeling of Mycroft’s body going soft and easy against his own. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft rolls his eyes and snaps that _yes, fine,_ he’s hungry, after Greg pulls him off long and leisurely on the sofa, their cuddle turning naughty after an hour. Greg insists he's watching the film and has no idea what Mycroft's whining about, as his hand moves torturously slow on him, first over top of the sweats and then slipped beneath. He lets Mycroft come with the end credits rolling in the background. 

“I’ll be back with snacks, then,” Greg says, satisfied, and leaves Mycroft sprawled on the sofa. 

When he comes back it’s with turkey on whole wheat with tomato and cheese, a generous handful of kettle crisps, two sliced apples, and a peeled orange waiting to be pulled apart into sections. 

Mycroft’s eyes widen at the amount of food. 

“We’re splitting it,” Greg says, like he’s doing Mycroft a favor by not asking him to eat a reasonably sized meal.

Something about that seems to relax Mycroft. He sits on the floor across the coffee table from Greg, and matches him bite for bite. He watches Greg’s fingers peel apart half-moons of orange, and takes them and eats them without argument while they talk. 

“What was being married like?” Mycroft asks after a brief lull. He’s licking salt from the crisps off his fingers, so it takes Greg a second to catch up. 

He wrinkles his nose. “Why on earth would you want to know about my marriage?” 

Mycroft shrugs. “I could deduce much of it, I’m sure. But that’s clinical information. I want to know about you. Did you like it?”

Greg blows out air and thinks. “Well,” he says, “yeah, at first, I did. Actually, even later on I still liked the concept of it. It just wasn’t working with my ex.” 

“What is her name?”

“Bette. Elizabeth.” Greg tilts his head to the bookshelf. “She’s in at least one of those pictures.” 

“The blonde.” 

“Good eye.”

“She’s very pretty.”

Greg considers Mycroft’s calm face, his curious eyes. He’s not going blank like he did before when he didn’t want Greg to know he was bothered or uncomfortable. “She is,” Greg agrees. “She was a dancer. Ballet. Got pretty far with it. Now she teaches.” 

Mycroft nods thoughtfully. “Would you say you have a type?”

“Hm, maybe.” Greg takes a bite of his half of the sandwich and considers it. “I mean, other than Bette I only seriously dated a couple of women. And yeah, I think they were all pretty similar. Independent, strong willed. Abrasive, even. Opinionated and not afraid to show it. And they were all really artsy, I think.”

“So, bohemian girls who don’t need you?”

“Well, fuck,” Greg laughs. “Don’t sugarcoat it!” 

Mycroft grins at him and nibbles on his own sandwich. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding it. 

“I’ve made my peace with it,” Greg says with a shrug. “Anyway, I had a bunch of semi-serious things with men, too. None since Bette. No one, since Bette, beyond a couple of one-off dates that went well enough to fool around but not to go out another time. But before her, I think I skewed toward men, really.” 

“You have a different type there.” 

Greg see-saws his hand back and forth. “Kind of,” he says. “It was so long ago, I was a lot younger. My priorities were different, so the things I liked about them might not be things I like now. I dunno.” 

“Younger men?”

Greg rolls his eyes. “No,” he says. “I told you that. Besides, considering I did most of my dating of men in my twenties, how young is younger than that? No, it was usually blokes around my own age. But they tended to be really… sweet. I liked the shy ones. Maybe there’s something there, about me liking the opposite of what’s expected. Loud women, quiet men.” 

Mycroft smiles softly at his plate and nods. “Interesting.” 

“Is it?” Greg sections out some more of the orange and passes it across the table. “I’m pretty boring, really.” 

Mycroft glances up. “You’re wonderful,” he says. “That could never be boring.” 

Greg stretches a leg out under the coffee table, resting his shin against the outside of Mycroft’s thigh. “You know I’m completely smitten with you. You’ve fucked me up pretty bad, Mycroft. It hasn’t even been a whole twenty four hours and suddenly I want to shrink you down and carry you around in my pocket. What’s that about, do you think?”  
  


Mycroft puts down the piece of orange he’d been poised to eat, and blinks at him. “I don’t know,” he says. “But you should know that of the handful of lecherous professors and my ex - for lack of a better term - and even my friends, no one has ever wanted anything like that with me. It’s usually something they want _from_ me, and most of the time it’s implied that I should be grateful for the attention. Which, pathetically, I am.”

Greg rubs at Mycroft’s hip with the side of his foot. “They’re all really stupid, then, huh?”

Mycroft smiles. “If only.” 

“I’m grateful,” Greg tells him. “For _your_ attention. How’s that?”

“Well,” Mycroft murmurs. “It’s a good start.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg kisses him all over, stretches him out in the bed and kisses him in all the places that make him twitch and giggle and sigh. And then he kisses him in all the places he clearly doesn't want Greg to look. 

“Someday,” Greg murmurs against the silvery faded lines of stretch marks at Mycroft’s hip, “you’ll look back on all the people who made you feel like you weren’t good enough, and you’ll laugh.” He drags his mouth down to the softness at the inside of Mycroft’s thigh. “Because by then you’ll have had _tons_ of men, dozens or hundreds if you want, who don’t care about stupid things like a perfect body - which doesn't exist - or charm - which is just a red flag, to be honest. And you’ll know that actually, you’re better than all of them, and you could have anyone or anything you want, just because you’re that fucking fantastic. And after that, you’ll forget all about them.” 

He’s about to nuzzle in next to Mycroft’s balls and start revving him up for his - holy shit - _fourth_ ? No, _fifth -_ orgasm of the day, when long fingers bury themselves in his hair and yank, hauling Greg up. 

Greg makes a sound of surprise and moves up the bed. “Ow! What? What is it?!” 

Mycroft glares up at him. He looks mortally offended. His fingers, at least, do go gentler in Greg’s hair, but his eyes could shoot flames. “I’m not going to have tons of men,” he snaps. “You aren’t my _starter Daddy,_ what a bunch of fucking nonsense. What is it you think that I’m going to do? Find some other perfect gorgeous man in another completely terrible pub and ask him to fuck me six hundred ways in a single day and then do it again and again? Do I simply go to the bloody fucking silver fox emporium and get a new one each weekend?”

God, but the boy could rant, couldn’t he? 

_“That’s_ what you took away from that?” Greg gapes at him. “Mycroft, what are you—” 

“I’ll address all that later,” Mycroft sniffs, suddenly imperious rather than outraged. “For now, we’re working on number five. So let’s get a move on.” 

Greg can’t help it. He knows he should stop things and make Mycroft explain himself - of course he’ll be with other men, why on _earth_ would he limit himself to _Greg? -_ but instead he just laughs, charmed and adoring. “Whatever you need, baby,” he says, a little mockingly, but he does mean it. “Anything you say.” 

And the satisfaction on Mycroft’s face is enough to get Greg the rest of the way hard again.

If this weekend doesn't kill him, he might have to give some thought to the implications of what Mycroft just said. For now, though, he’s busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a great day!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, we're still going! :D

Mycroft sets out with a goal, thinking that orgasm number five might be a dry one, and may need to be his last lest he sprain something, but he can’t stop interrupting Greg’s efforts. Greg strokes him, and Mycroft decides he wants both of Greg’s hands laced with both of his, pinning them to the bed while they grind together. Greg moves down his body in a series of hot wet kisses punctuated with mark-making sucks and nips, and Mycroft only lets him get two lush licks over his length before he asks for his Daddy’s mouth on his nipples. 

He’s worried that if he comes now, it’ll be over for the day. He really  _ is  _ concerned that he can’t manage another go. And he doesn't know what happens when sex becomes physically painful. Will Greg want him to go? Mycroft knows he has work in the morning, and for that matter Mycroft has a very early lecture followed by a packed schedule of presenting for his least favorite professor on the topic of the failures of the SIS in the lead up to the Falklands War, meeting with his uncle’s doctor, and catching up on all the reading he didn’t do today. 

In short, Mycroft  _ has _ to go home tonight, but he’d prefer it to happen at the very last reasonable minute, and not just because he couldn’t last the day. 

“You’re thinking,” Greg whispers in his ear. “Tell me what you need from me.” 

Mycroft rolls to the side, tangling legs with him and bumping noses. “I don’t want to be finished,” he says. “Let me suck you for a while?” 

“Well, it’d be a hardship,” Greg murmurs back. “But I suppose I could allow it.” 

He’s funny. Mycroft hates that he can’t keep a straight face. He has no idea how to get his poker face back. Maybe he never will. He groans through his laugh, just on principle. “Don’t tease me,” he whines. 

Greg kisses him, still grinning. “Getting tired?” 

“Not so much tired as emptied out,” Mycroft says, and it’s like they’re sharing secrets under blankets at night, not like they were having messy, meandering sex a second ago. “Seven may have been a bit of a high number for which to… er. Shoot.” 

Greg lets out a truly unattractive, snorting laugh and rolls onto his back, hauling Mycroft with him.  _ “Shoot,” _ he echoes. “God, that was a good one. Okay, fine. Do you need to stop for now?”

“No!” Mycroft presses up onto his palms, holding himself over Greg and searching his face for signs that  _ he _ wants to stop. He finds none. “No, I… I’m fine. I was hoping you would...um.” 

Greg tugs him back down. “Don’t be shy,” he murmurs. “You’ve been doing so well telling me what you need from me.” 

“I don’t know how to ask you to fuck me without sounding like bad porn.” Mycroft winces. “Though I suppose that worked, didn’t it?”

He’s rolled over again, pressed down into the pillows. Greg kisses him, soft and quick, and one hand strokes gently at Mycroft’s cheek. His face is sweetly open, which is a bit stunning, really. Mycroft feels completely gormless lying there staring up at him, eyes stuck on his. 

“That works,” Greg says finally, blinking. He licks his lips. “I— Mycroft. Are you sure? I… have no idea why I’m asking that  _ now.” _

Mycroft bites down on the inside of his cheek so he doesn't do something unforgivable like… he doesn't know. Whimper or outright cry. “It’s because you’re a very sweet sort of man, like I said. Kiss me before this gets any more saccharine, and then please decide how you want me, because— because that’s what I want. I didn’t like it the last time I tried it but I will this time. I will, with you.”

Greg kisses him, as asked. He kisses Mycroft like it’s the first one, very softly and tentatively, and then he kisses him again, with far more heat. 

“Anything you want,” Greg murmurs. “Stay right here, and let me open you up. Then we’ll see.” 

It stays quiet and close like that, which is in sharp contrast to everything that came before, all grasping and begging, filthy words and mingling sweat and spit. Greg fingers Mycroft open slowly, slower than he did earlier, and more thoroughly. 

“I—” Mycroft sighs, rolling his hips down on Greg’s two slick fingers. “I don’t need that much, I’m still alright from earlier.” 

“Don’t rush me,” Greg teases in a hushed voice. “Maybe I need a minute.” 

“You don’t need a minute,” Mycroft grouses, but it’s without heat. This feels good. It’s fantastic. Greg’s using an overabundance of lube, and nothing about it is uncomfortable. There’s no pain at all. There hadn’t been earlier, either, just a shockingly satisfying stretch, but this is… this is done entirely lovingly, with Greg’s lips brushing up against his, or trailing sweetly along his jaw. 

“I think,” Greg says after he’s slipped in a third finger and Mycroft has his feet planted on the mattress, trying to fuck himself down on them at a better angle, “I think you should ride me.” 

_ “Oh,”  _ Mycroft shivers. He’s never done it that way, but he’d been unable to think of anything but earlier, when he’d been held close in Greg’s lap while he shoved down on his fingers. “Yes,” he says. “Please, that’s what I want.” 

“Good,” Greg whispers, and presses another impossibly sweet kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “Can’t wait.”

“You don’t have to wait,” Mycroft says wryly. “You’re the one dragging this out.”

“So much cheek from you,” Greg teases, and slows his hand dramatically. “Just for that I should just do this for another… oh, how long do you think I could? Til my fingers cramp up? Til you’re begging me for it? What would come first do you think. 

Mycroft tries to kick at him but it’s impossible, and Greg just laughs, then sucks Mycroft’s bottom lip between his own. 

“Okay, baby,” he says, gently withdrawing his fingers. “Let me grab a condom.” At Mycroft’s wrinkled nose he tsks and shakes his head. “Don’t even think about it, that’s a hard and fast rule.”

“Hard and fast would be lovely,” Mycroft sighs with a fake little flutter of his lashes. 

Greg sits back up, a condom from his nightstand slotted between two fingers. “Very funny,” he says, but he’s smiling indulgently. “You have no idea where I’ve been,” he says. “Condoms. Always. With  _ everyone. _ I hope you used them before.” 

“Of course I did.” Mycroft knows the face he’s making is an unattractive one. “Uni boys are disgusting.” 

Greg laughs outright. “True,” he says, then rips open the condom packet with his teeth. “Want to put this on me?” 

_ “Yes.”  _

Mycroft scrambles to his knees and takes it, some part of him feeling as if he needs to prove that he knows how to use a condom, thereby proving that he has used them and isn’t an irresponsible idiot. 

“You’re fine,” Greg says, watching Mycroft’s hand rolling the latex down over his shaft. Their foreheads practically knock together. “Safety first and everything, but also I think I’d burst into flames if I fucked you bare, so.” 

Mycroft shivers and leans into him, smoothing the condom down the rest of the way. “The things you say,” he murmurs. 

“The things  _ you  _ say,” Greg returns. His hand lays softly against Mycroft’s cheek again and tips him into a kiss. “I love the things you say. This has been the best day I’ve had in… god, maybe decades.”

Mycroft pushes him away very gently. Enough talking. “Sit there, against the headboard.” 

Greg arranges the pillows behind himself and shifts his hips down the bed. “Come here, baby.” 

Mycroft reaches for the lube and slicks Greg’s cock quickly before climbing into his lap. 

“You’re a little shaky.”

Mycroft huffs. “I’ve come four times today,” he says. “And I’ve never done it this way before. Please, don’t tease me.” 

Greg’s face softens and his hands go to Mycroft’s hips, helping him settle high on his knees, a little closer. “I’m not, baby, I promise.” His hands squeeze gently, fingertips pressing into the swell of Mycroft’s arse. “I just want it to be good for you.” 

“It’s all been good for me.” 

Greg steadies himself with one hand, his wrist against the inside of Mycroft’s thigh so he can reach to do it. “Ready?”

Mycroft finds it hard to speak. He nods. 

“All you have to do is shift down a little.” Greg’s voice is as gentle as his hands have been. “I’ll help with the rest.”

Steadying himself with a hand on the headboard behind Greg’s head, the other holding Greg by the crook of his shoulder, trying not to cling, he does it, feeling the slick slide of Greg’s cock against him. 

“Feel?” 

Mycroft nods, a little breathless. 

“Slow, okay?” Greg leans up to kiss him. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mycroft can’t speak. He moves slowly, probably too slowly, and he knows he’s wide eyed, probably looks like a terrified virgin. It’s just the way Greg is looking at him, the patience and the sureness. Maybe that’s what makes this work, where it didn’t work for Mycroft before. 

The head of Greg’s cock is blunt pressure against him, but Mycroft is more stretched and slicked than he’s ever been for this, and instead of an overwhelming invasion, the press inside feels… it feels right. It’s not comfortable, but it’s... Mycroft’s fingers dig into Greg’s shoulder and an involuntary whine starts in his chest. 

“Good,” Greg murmurs against his cheek. “You’re perfect, you feel so good. Slow, slow.” 

Mycroft sinks down, just a little further, then rocks back up, trying to get a feel for the stretch before he tries to take him any deeper. “Oh,” he murmurs at the glancing pleasure of an accidental brush up against his prostate. He tries to rock just right again, then again, and again, finding it on the third try.  _ “Oh.” _

“Yeah?” Greg’s hands frame Mycroft’s face. “Right there?” 

Mycroft nods, dragging in a deep breath in an effort to calm his racing heart. “Yes,” he says. 

Greg gentles him down into a kiss, slipping his tongue back and forth over Mycroft’s lower lip. “You were biting that,” he tells him. “So fucking pretty.” 

Mycroft scrapes his teeth over his lower lip, like he’d been doing before without realizing it. His lips are so raw after the day he’s had, and the taste is vaguely metallic. The sting is good, though. It’s a reminder of the delicious scratch of Greg’s stubble, the lush pressure of his sucking mouth. Mycroft rocks down harder at the thought, and gasps.

“It’s good,” he hears himself say, though he doesn't consciously decide to say it. Doesn't know if he says it to himself or to Greg. “Oh, god, it’s— it’s so good.” 

“Oh, honey, that’s—” Greg kisses his chin, his throat, his collarbones. “That’s all I want, I just want it to be good for you.” 

“You’re so good to me,” Mycroft murmurs, tucking his face next to Greg’s as he moves in a gentle, rolling rhythm. He feels so…  _ full.  _ The pressure is so much, and the stretch is so… Mycroft loves it. Loves it so much, even though Greg is bigger than— it doesn't matter. It wouldn’t matter what his cock looked like, it would always be better with him. Mycroft knows that like he knows… well, everything else. He’s certain of it. It's a fact. 

Still, there’s no reason he can’t appreciate the relative merits of Greg’s much bigger cock. There’s no reason he can’t say the things he wants to say about it. So he does. 

“It’s so big,” he breathes, then grins when Greg groans and curls into him, his hands splayed over Mycroft’s back and holding him close. “It is, I’m not just…  _ mmph, _ not just saying that.”

“You’re terrible,” Greg mutters into the side of Mycroft’s neck. “An awful brat.” 

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. “But my point stands. Your cock is so big, Daddy, and I love it.” 

Greg’s hands hook over Mycroft’s shoulders, and Mycroft goes a little lax, letting himself be pulled down a little harder. He gasps at the sharp pleasure the thrust sends rocketing through him.    


“Let me bounce on it,” Mycroft tries, inspired in the moment though he couldn’t say where he came up with such a thing. “Can I?” He probably heard it in porn, but who cares? When he says it, Greg’s hips jerk up, and combined with the downward roll of Mycroft’s hips it’s  _ delicious.  _

“You can do whatever you want,” Greg says, and leans back, looking up at him with dark, lustblown eyes. “I’d love to see that.” 

Greg’s hand wraps firmly around Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft moves so he pushes into the hot circle of his fist. 

“Go on,” Greg rumbles. “Let me see you fuck yourself on my cock, baby boy. I’ll take care of this.” His fingers squeeze, and Mycroft shudders. “Let me see,” he says again. 

Mycroft nods, feeling his flush spread down his neck and chest, because despite the fact that Greg has been watching him this entire time, now he feels truly exposed. Watched. And he likes it, and he fears it, and he wants so badly to be seen, finally, that he moves without stopping to think, to consider whether he looks ridiculous or wonder what his face might be doing. 

And it’s…  _ God.  _

“There,” Greg murmurs, his wrist twisting but his hand otherwise still, letting the motion of Mycroft’s body do the work. “There you are, that’s what I want, baby. I want you to feel good.” 

Mycroft moves his hands to Greg’s shoulders, to the sides of his neck, hanging on as he angles his hips, searching for the right kind of friction. When he finds it, he cries out and grinds there, hips moving mindlessly, chasing that feeling. 

“Oh, my sweet boy,” Greg groans. He sucks at Mycroft’s shoulder, the tiny flash of pain drawing Mycroft’s nipples tight, as if tiny bolts of electricity shoot out from the tight contact of his Daddy's mouth and all across his skin. 

“Daddy,” he gasps. God, he loves that. He  _ loves _ that word. He doesn't care why. He doesn't care why Greg loves it. It doesn't matter. 

“Ride it, sweetheart,” Greg rasps. “Take it, you’re so fucking  _ good.”  _

Mycroft dissolves into desperate little sounds, unable to move fast or hard enough to catch up to the fleeting shocks of pleasure, unable to get enough friction on his cock. He’s straining for it and can’t quite get there. But it’s still so overwhelmingly good, he feels as if he could do this all night, bouncing and grinding down, panting and sweating and trying to come. 

But that isn’t what he wants to do. Not tonight. And god, he hopes he has another night. Another chance at this. Because he loves it. 

“Daddy,” he whispers, moving his hips backward and forward, leaning further into Greg’s body and trapping his cock between them. “I need… I need you to take me harder than this. I need… I need you. Please.”

Greg shudders and his arms squeeze tightly. “Yeah,” he groans into the space between them. “God, yes.” 

Mycroft trembles as he moves up and off, the slow drag out feeling like a great loss. 

“I’ve got you,” Daddy tells him, and soon Mycroft is on his back, two pillows under his hips. 

His legs fall open, splayed, and he gives it no thought at all, just holds himself like that, hands reaching down to his own cheeks, pulling them apart so his Daddy can see how much he wants him. 

“Mycroft,” Daddy murmurs, slipping the latex-covered head of his cock over and around his hole. “Oh, look at you.” 

“Please,” Mycroft moans. “God, please fuck me.” 

“Shhhh,” Daddy soothes, and slides inside him in one smooth thrust. “Oh, jesus, that’s tight.” 

“Daddy—” 

“Baby, you’re so, so good for me. I’ll get you there, don’t worry. Gonna fuck you til you come your brains out, then fill you up with mine.” 

Mycroft feels a bit like he’s filling with helium and floating away. He can’t do anything but cling, his hands gripping his Daddy’s strong shoulders, his legs wrapping around him. 

“Is that good?” Daddy asks, moving firm and steady inside him. “You want it harder?”

Mycroft does want that. He wants more, he wants it as hard as his Daddy will give it to him. “Yes,” he manages to say. “Yes, Daddy, harder.” 

The “Good boy,” that falls from Daddy’s lips is almost as breathless as Mycroft had been, and then Daddy fucks him harder, hitching his hips high. His Daddy’s thighs slap against his, and the lube all over them both makes it louder, makes the sound more obscene. 

“Oh god,” Mycroft whines, a tension twisting at the base of his spine. It scares him. It feels like so much, like he’s going to come, but who knows when, and like when he does it will blow him apart. “Oh, Daddy, I— Greg— Daddy—” 

“I love you,” his Daddy growls against his mouth. “Do you fucking hear me?” 

_ What?  _ Mycroft’s entire body seizes with blinding joy. 

“I love you,” Greg says again. “I don’t care how that sounds, you feel fucking amazing, you  _ are _ fucking amazing, and I  _ love—”  _

Mycroft is blindsided by the kiss, hard and bruising. If he had his senses, he’d think:  _ he’s shutting himself up, he doesn't think he should say that. _ And Mycroft can’t say anything with his Daddy’s tongue shoving over and over into his mouth. 

And, really, he doesn't want to. Because while his entire body sings  _ I love you, I love you too, I love you and I don’t care either—  _

His body is getting exactly what it needs, what it wants. The slap of skin on skin, the hard, punishing shoves against his prostate, the barely-enough friction on his cock.

Mycroft shudders and feels himself going slack, letting his Daddy take his mouth and his hole and his entire being, because that’s what he wants, what he’s always wanted, and he’s coming and he’s not coming - dry, all of it happening inside of him, his cock twitching against his belly and between the two of them. His blood rushes in his ears. He can’t hear himself, doesn't know what sounds he’s making. He can only hear his own throbbing pulse. 

But then he can hear his Daddy’s voice. 

“Oh, baby, oh, gonna come, gonna come in you, love. Oh,  _ god.”  _

Mycroft squeezes, thighs and knees and arms and his eyes shut, his belly trembling with the effort. 

Daddy jerks against him, shoves inside him over and over, then stills. 

_ “Fuck.”  _

Mycroft thinks maybe he’s gone blind, but he finds Daddy’s mouth with his own and kisses him through it, kisses him sloppily and a little wildly. A lot wildly. 

And then it’s silent. 

Very, very quiet, like it was before, when Greg — no, Mycroft isn’t ready — when Daddy was opening him up so gently and slowly. 

“Did I hurt you?” 

Mycroft shakes his head emphatically and clings more.  _ You love me, _ he thinks. _ I know you didn’t mean it like that, but just then, you loved me, and maybe you still do.  _

“I’ve never felt anything like that,” Daddy pants. “Baby, say something, let me know you’re alright.” 

“Love—” Mycroft stumbles over it, because the heavy cock in him twitches and sends a bolt of pleasure right down to his toes. “Love you, love you Daddy, don’t— Don’t go.”

Greg’s fingers shake against Mycroft’s cheek. “I won’t,” he promises. “I won’t.”

  
  


***

  
  


Once the silence becomes less ringing and Mycroft starts to recover from whatever just happened to him, his frayed nerves curling in on themselves and waiting for some calm, Greg pulls out of him and moves away just far enough to wrap the condom in a tissue and set it aside. 

They don’t speak. Mycroft’s cock hurts. His arse hurts. His thighs ache. His entire body feels chapped and raw. 

“It’s alright,” he finds himself saying, a little slurred, to break the fragile silence. “I know you don’t— I know it was just… sex.” 

Greg moves carefully, lowering himself back down to the mattress beside him and nudging in close. “I meant it,” he says. “I know that’s crazy, and I don’t care. Did you mean it?”

Mycroft closes his eyes, pained, and nods. “Yes.” 

“Okay,” Greg murmurs. “Then come here.” 

His arms open and welcome Mycroft inside of them. Mycroft breathes against him, breathes him in. 

“What are we gonna do, hm?” Greg’s hands sweep over Mycroft’s back, warm and soothing. “Do we need to be sectioned, do you think?”

Mycroft is grateful for the joke. He laughs silently, humor like a tremor in his chest. “No,” he says. “They don’t allow kinky sex in the asylum.”

“Don’t they?” Greg hums thoughtfully. “A shame, that.”

Mycroft smiles. “You make me feel so safe,” he says, post-orgasm fog and exhaustion making it easy to say. “I’ve never… I’ve never felt that before.” 

Who wouldn’t love that?” 

“You…” Greg breathes in, slow and deliberate. “You make me feel needed. And young. And I just  _ want _ you.”

“Good,” Mycroft says, yawning. “You have me. Go to sleep.” 

“Bossy.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

  
  


***

  
  


But, of course, things are more difficult when they wake later. The soft edges have slipped away, and it’s dark outside. Night has fallen, and next it will be tomorrow. They both have real lives waiting for them tomorrow. Mycroft will not be this person tomorrow. He can’t be.

“I don’t want to leave,” Mycroft says in the dark. “Ever.”

“Well,” Greg sighs, his broad hands tracing soft patterns over his back. “I think you have to. If you don’t, your uncle might worry.” 

“Is that the only reason?”

There is a pause. “Pretty much, yeah,” Greg says with a little laugh. “I can’t think of anything else.”

“You met me less than a day ago,” Mycroft says, and then makes a list out loud. “You have no idea how awful my family is, or how difficult I can be. You have never done this sort of thing before, and you have no idea how being with someone so young could affect your life. You haven’t even been with a man in over fifteen years. I am fairly certain we are both busy nearly all of the time. I’ve never had a functioning relationship, romantic or otherwise,  _ ever.”  _

“Well,” Greg says, with an air of reason about him, “you’re nineteen, so you’re expected to be a bit of a mess.”

It shocks Mycroft into a laugh. “Oh, god,” he groans, tilting his face into Greg’s chest, though he doesn't have to hide it in the dark. “Be less wonderful, please.”

“You first.”

Mycroft could die now, and have no regrets about a single choice he’s made in life. 

Greg squeezes him a bit. “You don’t have to go yet,” he says. “Let me feed you again. We’ll order takeaway.” 

“Alright,” Mycroft agrees. “And… and can I come back? Sometime?” 

“I want you here all the time,” Greg says. “As often as you like. Tomorrow night. This weekend. Show up at three in the morning and I’ll want you.” 

Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut.  _ What is this? _

“Dinner first,” he says, swallowing hard against a lump in his throat. 

“Yeah,” Greg murmurs. “Come on, let’s get up or we never will.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft can’t leave. He  _ can’t.  _

“You’re coming back,” Greg murmurs at the door. “Come back after you’re done for the day tomorrow. I’ll be home by seven at the latest.” 

“Hold me tighter,” Mycroft demands, then grunts when Greg’s arms do exactly that. “I hate everyone in the world save for you,” he says darkly. “I mean that.”

“I know, baby.” Greg kisses him hard on the temple. “Right back at you, to be honest.”

“You have a sister,” Mycroft grumbles. “A nice one. You like her.”

“Don’t deduce my pictures anymore,” Greg grouses. “I like  _ telling _ you things.” 

Mycroft laughs and clings tighter. “Thank you for this,” he says. “This was the best day of my life.” 

“So far,” Greg amends for him. “The best one so far. You’ll have so many better ones, promise.”

“With you?”

“If you want.” 

Mycroft kisses him, loving the way Greg’s arms are almost too tight around his ribcage. He hopes it bruises. He hopes he has that, plus all the little suck marks and love bites all over him, to take home with him and press his fingers against later. Earlier, Greg had put lip balm on him, his fingers impossibly soft on Mycroft’s chapped lips. Those fingers had trailed down, testing the bruises on his chest. Mycroft had insisted they didn’t hurt much. Greg had looked torn between pride at having put them there, and sorrow for having put them there. Or maybe for having to see them walk out the door with Mycroft. 

“Make me go,” Mycroft mutters. “I can’t do it myself.” 

Greg presses him back firmly by the hips. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Go home, love. You have my number in your phone. Text me when you get there. And then whenever you want after that.” 

“I will make you regret that.” 

Greg snatches one last kiss. “Your uncle’s driver is waiting downstairs. I’m sure he wants to go home.” 

Mycroft nods. “Don’t change your mind,” he says, stepping back out of the doorway to Greg’s flat. “Please don’t change your mind.”   


Greg shakes his head. “I won’t. Goodnight, sweet boy.” 

Mycroft grits his teeth and goes, Greg’s fingers catching his for just a second as he does. 

He keeps a straight face down the hall and the stairs, and even out the door of Greg’s building — a skinny converted brownstone, three flats; Greg lives on the second floor. He turns on the pavement and blinks up at the glowing windows. 

The Mercedes idles silently behind him. He’ll get into it in a second. He waits. 

Greg appears in the window and waves. 

Mycroft waves back, and then throws himself bodily into the car with a full body shudder, something in him feeling severed and hemorrhaging. 

“Home, please, Carson,” he says numbly. 

“Very good, Mister Holmes. Hardly any traffic tonight. Fifteen minutes at most.” 

“Thank you.” 

Mycroft closes the privacy screen and throws himself down across the leather seats, hands over his face. He breathes and tells himself not to be stupid. 

He gets a little weepy anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooooo!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, still going.

Mycroft lays in bed a week later and scrolls through an obscene number of text messages, his thumb flying over the screen so he can get to the beginning. 

Sent the previous Sunday night, from inside his uncle’s car: 

**MH (10:45pm):** Just arrived at the house. I think the driver knows I’ve been back here having a nervous breakdown. I have to get out sooner of later, I suppose. 

**GL (10:47pm):** Don’t have a nervous breakdown. Go inside and get some sleep, sweetheart. Everything is fine. 

From his bedroom: 

**MH(11:17pm):** I miss you. 

**GL (11:18pm):** God, I miss you too. 

He had wanted so badly to go right back to Greg’s the next night, but he had gotten a call halfway through the day offering him a two-night consultancy on an anti-smuggling operation. 

Mycroft had spent the previous summer working as a PA to one of his uncle’s former protegés, the head of an elite intelligence and surveillance unit specializing in customs and illegal trafficking. It had gone well, and by the end of it Mycroft hadn’t needed his uncle’s name to get anyone’s attention. By the end of the two-night op, Mycroft knew it was only a matter of time before the overtures at luring him away from further study would begin. 

Sent from the hallway outside his advisor’s office: 

**MH(1:36pm):** I’m so sorry, but I can’t come back tonight. Something came up. That sounds like a line, but I promise it isn’t. I can’t say anything else. 

**GL(1:58pm):**?? It’s alright, of course it is. Bit odd that you can’t say. 

**MH(2:02pm):** I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be free again Thursday, will you be home?

 **GL(2:15pm):** Niece's spring recital. 

**MH(2:18pm):** Music?

 **GL(2:20pm):** Dance. 

It hadn’t been much of a leap to the obvious: Greg’s ex-wife was his niece's dance teacher. He would see his pretty blonde ex wife. Mycroft had crushed his own jealousy ruthlessly. _Don’t be a child about it, idiot._

 **MH(2:22pm):** No screeching violins, then. My own parents weren’t much for recitals, but I did piano for years and childrens’ music recitals are mostly excruciating. What are dance recitals like?

 **GL(2:28pm):** Really cute! Gemma’s in the older group now, and they’re pretty fantastic. But the little ones go first and they’re hilarious. It’s fun :) Piano… do you still play?

 **MH(2:31pm):** I can, but I rarely do. I don’t know why, now that I think of it. There is a piano here. 

**GL(2:35pm):** I have to go for a bit, all-hands meeting in ten. Will you play something for me? Send me a video. I should’ve known with those fingers. Got to stop thinking about your fingers or I’ll be a mess for this meeting. Talk soon, baby, and don’t worry. We’ll figure out a plan. 

Mycroft, warm all over, had taken his phone to the conservatory and propped it up for a long sideways view of the piano keys. He watches the video now, of his fingers moving over the familiar opening of Liszt’s Liebestrӓume, the romantic waterfall of it easy and lovely. He’d been relieved he had the muscle memory in his hands. It had been years, but then again he’s not sure he could forget how to do something if he tried. 

He changed direction after a minute, to Satie’s Gymnopedie no.1. Sherlock had once stood in the doorway of the sitting room in their parents’ house and said, “That piece is unsettling for something that appears on every lullabye compilation CD, don’t you think? You have gotten better since I saw you last summer,” and it had been funny, because Mycroft had _just_ thought that. Had _just_ wondered why the slow sadness of the notes made parents think: I think my infant should hear this now, so they understand depression early on. 

And then, smirking to himself, Mycroft had shifted into Gershwin, which he had _never_ allowed his music tutors to know he played, but which he loved. And then he played something he’d heard on the radio a few days previous, his fingers tripping over themselves for a moment while he found the melody. He hoped Greg recognized it. Mycroft had no idea who or what it was, but he had thought at the time that it was quite pretty, for popular music. 

He’d sent the video and then dragged himself away from his mobile. He only had a few minutes until the phone conference with Uncle Rudy’s cardiologist. 

**GL(4:28pm):** I am somehow even more attracted to you now. That was lovely. You know Adele? 

**MH(6:02pm):** I assume Adele is the person who sings the last song? If I send you more, will you continue to be more attracted to me? Could I stir you into a frenzy with half-finished piano pieces? I’m going to need to turn off my mobile in about an hour. Can I call you tomorrow?

 **GL(6:18pm):** Piano playing as foreplay? Dunno, try it out. You can call me any time. 

**GL(6:23pm):** Wait, did you figure out how to play a song by ear? Don’t answer, if I get any more impressed by you I’ll never get anything done.

Mycroft lets his phone fall to the bed beside him and rubs at his eyes. He’s so tired, and he doesn't want to be here in his own bed. But Greg is working the weekend, and last night Uncle Rudy had a disturbingly rough night of it, chest pain and an edge of fogginess that Mycroft hadn’t liked. The doctor had come in around midnight, and Mycroft had stood stiffly outside the bedroom door for hours after, listening to his uncle’s breathing. 

When he was small, Mycroft thought Uncle Rudy was immortal. He had also thought he was old _then._ He was, but now he’s _very_ old, and Mycroft knows his time is coming to an end, and soon he will lose the one person who has always understood him, if quietly. 

Mycroft hasn’t slept since Thursday, and he’d fallen into his bed early, just as Greg texted to say he was heading into the recital, and that he hoped Mycroft was alright. The two-night op had been a three-night op, and Mycroft hadn’t had a moment to breathe, really, all week. 

It’s late Saturday now, and he’s almost too tired to sleep, his body forgetting how to stop. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. 

Seven days ago at exactly this time, Greg was touching Mycroft’s face softly in the dim light of his lounge.

Mycroft tells himself to stop being such a baby and _go to sleep._

It almost works. 

  
  


***

  
  


By the time Greg texts him the following Friday, Mycroft is vibrating. He needs to get out of this house, away from his fellow students, his dull professors and their overblown sense of their own intelligence, and his career prospects crowding themselves up against his front door. 

_You can’t remain a student forever,_ Uncle Rudy had creaked. 

Mycroft didn’t see why not. He could simply become a professional academic. 

_That would be a waste,_ Uncle Rudy had said, but it had been said kindly. And he was right. 

**GL(3:07pm):** I am taking the entire weekend off. I need to see you. 

**MH(3:10pm):** Thank god. My uncle is feeling better, I can get away. Tonight?

 **GL(3:13pm):** Tonight. 

  
  


***

  
  


When the door to the flat opens and Greg is there, Mycroft can’t quite believe it. It’s as if he doubted his existence on some level. As if he might have made the entire thing up. He freezes and can only stare, taking in the way the warm glow from the kitchen backlights Greg’s silvery hair, his eyes crinkling with his smile, his fresh-shaven face, the soft-looking jumper he’s wearing and his bare feet. 

“Hey,” Greg says softly. “You okay?”

Mycroft is not okay. He’s exhausted and he’s been terribly tense for days and days, and the sudden relief he feels just because the flat door opened and this man was standing there is so intense that he’s dizzy. His breath shudders out of him and he drops his bag and steps forward, right into a pair of strong, open arms. 

“Oh, god.”

 _“Baby,”_ Greg murmurs. “What’s this? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

Mycroft shoves his face into the soft jumper and tries to breathe. He shakes his head; he can’t speak. 

“You—” Greg takes a step back, not letting go, leading Mycroft inside like it’s a dance. He needs one of his arms so he can shut the door behind them, but it returns immediately, wrapped securely around Mycroft’s aching shoulders. “You don’t have to talk,” he says. “Just nod if you want me to take you to the sofa to sit for a minute.”

Mycroft shakes his head.

“Bed?”

Relieved, he nods.

“Alright, okay, come on, we’re just gonna walk sideways like this.”

Mycroft laughs helplessly into the soft wool he can’t bring himself to stop burying his face in. 

“Look, I don’t want to let go either, so we’re getting creative.” Greg squeezes him as they move, feet shuffling. “It’s fine.”

Greg gets them into the dark bedroom and flicks on the lamp on the dresser before sitting Mycroft down on the bed. He kneels down and takes off his shoes, then climbs up, tips him back onto the mattress, and hauls him in close again. He blankets Mycroft with himself and strokes his hands over him sweetly. “What happened?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “Nothing happened,” he says. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I just missed you, and I think I’d started to convince myself I’d hallucinated you, or— Not literally, obviously, it’s just.” He groans, frustrated. “I compartmentalized a bit too effectively.” 

He thinks of the moments before he was handed a headset, sitting in front of a bank of CCTV monitors. Voices had already been crackling through the earphones, two separate teams preparing to walk into an unknown level of danger and waiting for Mycroft to steer them. He’d clenched his jaw and his fingers, crumpling the brief in his hands - the one he’s had all of an hour to read - and told himself to forget everything else, and it had been good, but awful, to feel cool stillness descend over everything, his entire being composed of analytical sharpness. A computer. A machine. 

“What the hell have you been up to?” Greg leans up on an elbow, his other hand splayed over Mycroft’s chest. “Seriously, as far as I know you’re a uni student, I’m— I’m worried about you. You look completely done in.”

Mycroft sighs and tries to sink, tries to relax into Greg’s pile of pillows. “I’m a uni student,” he says. “I also… moonlight. A bit.” 

“Moonlight?”

“Last summer I worked for a high ranking official in the intelligence community.” Mycroft licks his lips, nervous. He doesn't know _why_ he’s this nervous. “I sometimes still work for him. For his organization. I’m not allowed to say more, I’m sorry.” 

Greg stares down at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re serious.”

Mycroft nods, numb, afraid he’s going to be laughed at; afraid Greg doesn't believe him. 

“Christ,” Greg whispers, and presses his lips to Mycroft’s forehead. “Of course you are. You are _too young,_ oh my god, what the hell— No, sorry, no— I don't mean it like that, I just. I knew you had a rough week, and I’d worried about the sort of toll it takes on someone, trying to study and take care of an ill family member at the same time. And now you’re _working_ too? Probably for MI6? How do you ever have the time for a personal life? For _sleep?”_

Mycroft winces. 

“You don’t, do you?” 

“Well…”

Greg gives him a flatly unimpressed look. “Right,” he says. “You’re taking a nap. I’m cooking. I’ll bring you a plate. Go to sleep.”

“No!” Mycroft struggles to sit up. “Please, no, I want— I don’t want to sleep, I want _you,_ don’t go.” 

Greg catches him by the shoulders and presses him gently down into the pillows. “I’m coming back,” he says. “I’m not jumping into bed with you when you have circles under your eyes and probably haven’t eaten all day - don’t lie, you’re pale as hell - and I’m certainly not going to go blundering past the fact that you more or less collapsed when I answered the door. I practically carried you in here. You need to rest, eat, and take a _lot_ of _very_ deep breaths, and if you’re very good I’ll blow you before we both go to sleep for the night.” 

Mycroft whimpers. “Alright,” he manages, choking on it. _God._ “Thank you.”

Greg softens, kisses his forehead. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, and kisses his eyelids and the tip of his nose. “You don’t have to worry about anything. Nothing. Not for two whole days. I’ve got you.” 

Mycroft shivers and tips his face up. “Please kiss me before you go?” 

“With pleasure,” Greg says, and slips his lips over Mycroft’s in a soft lip-lock. It’s followed by another, his lower lip fitting between both of Mycroft’s. Mycroft sucks gently, sweeps his tongue over it, and sighs. Greg makes a pleased sound in his chest, and Mycroft presses his hand there to feel it. They kiss like that, long and warm and unhurried, while Greg massages at a knot that’s been killing Mycroft’s left shoulder for days. When it finally works loose, Mycroft moans obscenely, and Greg catches that with his mouth before he pulls away. “I’ll give you a better shoulder rub later,” he says. “You have that hunched-over-a-desk-all-day look about you. But first, food.” 

Mycroft nods, struck a little dumb by the unfamiliar feeling of safety and relaxation. 

“Be right back, sweetheart.”

Mycroft catches Greg’s hand before he can go, tugs him back in for just one more kiss. “Thank you, Daddy,” he murmurs. 

It breaks the last bit of tension, and Greg melts against him. “Of course, baby,” he murmurs. “Thanks for letting me take care of you.”

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft dozes for a while, until Greg wakes him with a gentle press of lips to his cheek. 

“I ate in the kitchen,” he murmurs while Mycroft shoves himself semi-upright against the pillows. “I’ll just sit with you, if that’s alright.”

“Of course it is.” 

“There’s a glass of water on the nightstand.” Greg hands him a bowl of pasta in a fragrant red sauce, covered in curls of parmesan cheese. “Here. If you want more, there’s plenty.”

Mycroft can’t bring himself to feel awkward about being served like this. It’s too nice, and his _bones_ appreciate it. “I’ve never eaten in bed before,” he says, twirling spaghetti around the fork.

“That’s a shame,” says Greg. He settles at Mycroft’s side, curved toward him with his legs pressed to Mycroft’s. “Everyone needs that every so often. Even if it’s just tea and toast.”

Mycroft can’t believe how good the pasta is. “Oh—” he holds a hand up in front of his mouth, hiding his chewing. “It’s delicious.”

“It’s from a jar,” Greg teases. “You’re just starving, love.”

“I didn’t mean to be, honestly.” Mycroft takes another bite. Has he ever had pasta sauce from a jar? If he hasn’t, he’s been missing out. “I know you got the idea that I have an eating disorder or what have you—” 

“I’d call it _disordered eating,_ but fine.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. _“Fine,”_ he echoes. “But I really don’t aim to run myself into the ground. It’s just that sometimes things like stopping to eat or being quiet enough to sleep, seem like a waste of time. Or like they’ll happen _to_ me eventually, when I inevitably _must_ do them, so… Yes, I know it’s unhealthy.” 

Greg clearly has to make an effort to smooth his expression. “Your parents have a _lot_ to answer for,” he says. “I mean, mine weren’t great either, so I’m not trying to judge, but _fucksake,_ Mycroft.”

Mycroft shrugs and eats. He agrees. His parents do have a lot to answer for. Though, Mycroft thinks that on the whole he turned out well enough. They could have used their brains - his mother especially, since hers is supposedly a national treasure going to waste out in the country - to figure out how not to let Sherlock turn into a great flapping crow of chaos and discontent. Mycroft feels badly just thinking it. He loves his brother, and it’s not his fault. But the last time Mycroft saw him, Sherlock was all swirling, fraying coat and tangled curls, angry and belligerent, sending the house into a complete meltdown for weeks with his latest near-death. 

Greg squeezes his knee. “Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t want to make you feel bad.” 

“You didn’t,” Mycroft says, and realizes he’s scraping up the last of the pasta sauce. “I can’t believe I ate all of that.” 

Greg chuckles and takes the dirty bowl away. “More?”

“Maybe later.” 

“Be right back,” Greg says, taking the bowl into the kitchen after dropping an absent little peck to Mycroft’s lips. 

Kissing like that is something Mycroft didn’t care for before. Richard - Richie, his ex (he doesn't like the term, it implies Mycroft ever felt like they were anything other than both gay, both single, and both tired of their virginities) - had done it a lot and it had always felt presumptuous and inorganic. So far, it’s not something Greg does much. So far, he almost always kisses Mycroft with intent, even if the intent is to force him to take a nap on the sofa in the middle of the day. But this one had been different, and Mycroft had liked it. 

Greg returns with a napkin wrapped around two small cubes of something chocolate covered. “Petit fours,” he says, holding one up to Mycroft’s lips. There is a tiny fondant flower on top. “Raspberry filling inside this one. Open.”

Mycroft obeys mindlessly, and finds himself staring up at Greg as the dessert is placed between his teeth. He takes a bite and rolls his eyes as he closes them “Oh, my god.”

“I know,” Greg says, smug. “Got them from this little bakery between here and my tube stop. Thought you might like them. And I’d hoped you would make that exact face when I fed it to you.”

“I have a serious chocolate problem,” Mycroft says. “Or, _had._ I have it under control these days.”

“Meaning you deprive yourself of it entirely. Open.”

Greg feeds him the second half of the tiny cake and follows it with a kiss. Mycroft swallows in a hurry so he can hook a hand around the back of Greg’s head and deepen it. Greg licks chocolate from Mycroft’s tongue and groans that deep, rumbly, groan of his, and just like that Mycroft is hard in his jeans. He squeezes his thighs together, trying and failing to swallow the sound he makes. 

“One more,” Greg says, pulling away just a little. “This one has caramel.” 

“You are killing me,” Mycroft says. “Split it with me?” 

“There are four more in the kitchen,” Greg tells him. “I bought half a dozen. We can get more on Sunday, if you like.”

 _“Killing_ me. You are a very bad man.”

“Mmhmm.” Greg holds up the petit fours and makes a pleased little hum when Mycroft bites into it with no prompting. He pops the other half in his mouth and chews, eyes sparkling at Mycroft as he does. 

“You’re so good to me,” Mycroft sighs, shifting forward to climb half into Greg’s lap. “No one has ever been this good to me.” 

“I realize that,” Greg says against his cheek before he kisses it. “Makes me furious. C’mere and let me kiss you senseless, and then I plan on sucking you off for as long as you can stand it.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg strips Mycroft, and then himself after Mycroft insists.

“This isn’t _for_ me,” he protests. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Who says that you getting naked is for you? It’s for me. Now come on, I want to see you.” 

Greg lets Mycroft spend all of fifteen seconds running his hands all over the broad chest he’s missed so much for two long weeks, raking his fingers through the hair and thumbing over both nipples, before Greg catches his hands and knocks Mycroft onto his back with a grunt. 

“Oooh.” Mycroft flutters his eyelashes. “Manhandle me, Daddy.”

“If you want me to, I will,” Greg says, slotting one leg between Mycroft’s. “But not tonight.” 

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” Greg kisses him, and Mycroft rubs up against him, cock dragging against his heavy thigh. 

It turns out ‘let me kiss you senseless’ means an overwhelming assault on Mycroft’s mouth, endless, deep, searching kisses, followed by nips and bites, broken up with slow, easy liplocks. It’s rolling waves of kissing, and then storms of it. Mycroft is gasping by the time Greg lets him rest, drawing back to trace along Mycroft’s slick lips with his fingertip. 

“No stubble burn this time,” he says with an air of satisfaction. 

Mycroft blinks. “Did you shave for me?”

“Mmm.” Greg kisses his chin, the very top of his upper lip, the corners. “Don’t want you spending the weekend scratched raw.”

“I…” _love you._ Mycroft isn’t sure if that’s something he can say out loud. They haven’t mentioned it in their text conversations, and he knows better than to assume things said in the middle of sex, even things they’d insisted they meant to say just after. “Thank you, Daddy,” is what he settles on. 

For that he gets a smile and another kiss, and finally the rock of Greg’s hips against him, his erection slotting up against Mycroft’s. 

_“Oh.”_ Mycroft twitches up, wanting more of that velvet on velvet feeling. 

“You like that?”

“Mm.” 

“Tell me how much you like it.”

Mycroft gasps, and closes his eyes. He wants to do it, he wants to be _filthy_ about it, but he can’t bear to make eye contact while he does. Shyness catches him at the strangest times. A minute ago he was asking to be knocked about a bit, and now he feels a blush heating his face at the prospect of saying he likes a bit of frottage. 

“I… I love it,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “I love your big cock, Daddy, and you’re so hard. You fucked me so good before, and it’s all I’ve thought about.”

“That’s good,” Greg murmurs, sitting up so he can thrust more against Mycroft’s own dripping erection and play with his nipples at the same time. “Open your eyes,” he says, low and rough. “Let me see you.”

Mycroft shakes his head even as he arches up into his Daddy’s pinching fingers. “I can’t.”

“Don’t be shy,” he soothes. “Don’t be afraid of me, my baby.”

“I’m not,” Mycroft says, his voice tight with building, frantic pleasure. He tries to reach down, maybe get a grip on both their sliding cocks, but his hand is smacked away gently. 

“No. In fact, I want you to take over for me right here—” he squeezes over Mycroft’s pectorals. “Because I’m gonna get my mouth on your cock now. Here—” he guides Mycroft’s hands, posing them over his nipples like he’s a doll. “Show me, sweetheart, show me how you make yourself feel good. And open. Your eyes.”

Mycroft shudders and traces trembling fingers over his own nipples, and pries his eyes open. Daddy - it’s Daddy, now, in Mycroft’s mind, and that suffuses him with light - rewards him by stroking a palm over the wet head of Mycroft’s prick, then squeezing his fingers in a tight circle just under the head. 

“Oh, good boy,” he says. “You’re so fucking good for me, you make me so happy.” 

Mycroft blinks away an inexplicable welling of tears. “Please—” he pinches at his right nipple, his left hand moving down of its own volition. “Please let me come, you can come with me, Daddy, please—” 

“Shhh.” Daddy gently holds his straying hand. He leans down and worries the flat of his tongue over the neglected nipple, sucks and nips it before placing Mycroft’s hand there again. He moves quickly down Mycroft’s body, settling in the ‘v’ of his spread legs, and makes a show of watching his own hand pull back Mycroft’s foreskin, fully exposing the swollen glans. “Oh, honey, this is all for me, huh?”

“Mmhm.” 

“I want to make you feel so good.” He licks along the flared head. “Tell me what you like best. I can hold you down good and tight, not let you move, and swallow you whole.” His hands squeeze at Mycroft’s hips. “Or you can fuck up into my mouth, take what you need from me, and I’ll take it, however you want it.” He teases a finger behind Mycroft’s balls. “I’ll finger you if you want.” 

Mycroft is completely obliterated by those words. “I’m going to come just listening to you,” he gasps, practically clawing at his own chest in an effort to keep it together. “Hold— hold me down? Please?” 

“Okay, love, that’s good. Now put those hands up and keep them still. Hold the pillow if it helps. Let me take care of it.”

And with that, Mycroft’s cock is engulfed in wet heat, and his hands slam back, going for the pillow immediately so he has something to hang onto. _“Daddy.”_

Daddy hums and moans, deep and mumbling. His tongue curls around Mycroft’s shaft as he sucks, bobbing his head up and down. Mycroft’s hips twitch and jerk, but he isn’t given room to move. He loves that, loves the pinned feeling. His Daddy loves it too, loves keeping him still and sucking him down. His eyes are open, watching Mycroft’s face with satisfaction. 

“I can’t last,” Mycroft gasps. “It’s too good.” 

“Mmmm...” Daddy’s eyes close happily and he lets his mouth go a little slack and wet and sloppy on Mycroft, slicking him wetter with spit. The sounds he makes as he moves over Mycroft’s length are obscene. He’s sucking and swirling and swallowing in fluttery spasms with the head almost in his throat, and he’s slurping and groaning and making tiny little choking noises when he goes just a little too far. 

It’s so good. It’s so, so good. Mycroft can feel his orgasm in his curling toes, shivers making their way up his legs and gathering behind his balls and low in his belly. “Close,” he pants. “Daddy, so close.” 

His daddy holds his arse in his hands, prying him open with his big rough thumbs, one dipping close to Mycroft’s hole as he sucks furiously, the tight ring of his lips tightening over the head of Mycroft’s prick on every upward pull. Mycroft’s body tightens in the last moments, stomach trembling and knees starting to draw up toward his chest. Daddy puts his thumb to Mycroft’s entrance and rubs, almost pressing past the tight rim, rough and dry. 

“Oh, _god!”_ He twists against the pillows, his hands clenched into fists on either side of his head. _“Daddy, oh—_ Daddy, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m—” 

It’s so much, too much, this rush through him. He hasn’t come since he left here two week ago. He’s gone hard and breathless in his bed by himself remembering all the ways his Greg had touched and loved him, had whispered the word _Daddy_ to himself in the dark to get used to it, but he hasn’t done a thing about it, saving it all for this moment. It pours out of him like fire and tears leak from the corners of his eyes as he shakes through it. 

Daddy’s mouth gentles, his tongue swiping and catching the last spurts, throat working when he swallows. When Mycroft twitches hard with over-sensitization, he stops and lets Mycroft’s softening cock rest against his belly with one last kiss to the head, feather light. 

“Oh, baby,” Daddy sighs, sliding up his body. “That was gorgeous.” 

“Kiss me.” Mycroft licks the taste of himself out of Daddy’s mouth, lets himself be held for a moment while he catches his breath. Then, he says, “You now,” and tugs on Daddy’s arm. “Can you? Come here, and let me suck your cock. Fuck my mouth.”

“Baby, you don’t have to—” 

“I want to. I need to taste you, _please.”_

And Mycroft will try not to abuse the power of the word ‘ _please’_ in the future, he swears, but he’s smug about it working in this instance. He gets to roll to his side - his legs are still shaking - and wrap his arms around his Daddy’s sexy thick thighs and open his mouth to him. It’s just what he wanted, and Daddy’s cock is incredibly wet with precome. This won’t take long. 

Daddy won’t be rough with him. “Not tonight,” he murmurs, petting Mycroft’s hair off his forehead as he rocks his hips forward gently, feeding his cock into Mycroft’s waiting mouth. “I just want to enjoy you. God, look at those pretty lips.” 

Mycroft remembers the things Daddy said last time, about doing this in front of a mirror. He moans at the memory, and squeezes Daddy’s thighs and arse cheeks, urging him to move a little faster. He thinks about his Daddy taking video of him like this, holding Mycroft’s phone and recording the stretch of his lips around his cock. Mycroft almost wants to stop sucking long enough to tell him that and see what reaction he gets, but his Daddy’s eyes are hooded and blissful, his hips rocking constantly now, no hesitation. 

So, instead of stopping Mycroft sucks harder and pulls more firmly at his Daddy’s hips, making a show of it. He moans and drools a little, chokes himself on it with his brows drawn together in bliss, flutters his lashes and looks up through them. Daddy looks down at him with his lips parted and his eyes glossing over. Mycroft palms his bollocks with one hand, feeling them start to tighten. He sighs happily and sucks luxuriously, and just as he feels Daddy tense he takes him down deep and lets him come down his throat. 

“Ohjesusohgod,” Daddy gasps, his body going still and his mouth dropping open further in a silent cry as Mycroft swallows around him. _“Ah—”_

Mycroft pulls off slowly, teasing a little with his tongue on the way, getting back at him for the little edge of too-much he’d visited on Mycroft. 

When the last aftershock has gone, they collapse together in a pile of limbs, breathing hard. 

“Mycroft.” 

“Daddy?”

“I have questions.”

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft drinks tea and smiles beatifically while Greg fumbles through his opening statements. He's propped up against the pillows, and he feels better than he ever has in his life, probably, even better than he’d felt last time, because now he feels as if he belongs here. In Greg’s - Daddy’s - bed, fucked out and happy. 

Ironically, as he thinks it, Greg finally gets to his question. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page about this because I’m not sure if you’re thinking of me that way all the time, or just in or around bed, or what, and it’s fine!” He holds out his hands as if to stop a protest, though Mycroft hasn’t said anything. “It’s fine either way, okay? But I felt like I should ask. It seems like something we should talk about.”

Mycroft inhales the scent of the tea and takes a sip. Greg, sitting across from him in the bed, waits patiently for an answer. “Mostly, it’s in bed,” Mycroft says. He’s thought about this. Extensively. “It’s slipped out a couple of other times. Earlier, when you answered the door, I think I wanted to call you that. I think that was my first thought. It was overwhelming, because it’s… it’s _safety,_ you see. That’s what it means for me, I suppose.”

Greg’s face softens. “That’s good.”

“It really is,” Mycroft says, smiling into his tea. “Tonight, there was a point where that was all I could call you, even in my head. It made everything even better. This is all fine, so what, specifically, are you worried about?”

Greg averts his eyes sheepishly. “Well, I did some googling.” 

“Oh, _god,”_ Mycroft laughs, head tipping back against the pillows. “Oh, dear.”

“Don’t laugh,” Greg protests, but he’s laughing too. “I was just curious! That’s all. And all sorts of things popped up that I had never even considered. Like, some people like to pretend they’re actually little kids, you know? Or babies, even.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft nods. “I know, but that’s not what I’m interested in, personally.”

“Well I was pretty sure, but you know…”

“I suppose you took a look at the wide world of free internet porn?” Mycroft smirks. “I mean, assuming you know how to use the internet outside of The Google, being so old and everything.” 

“Brat!” Greg kicks him gently. “Shut up, you! I’ve been single for _years,_ and there wasn’t much sex in the latter half of my marriage. Of course I was already aware of _the wide world_ of PornHub. Even _gay_ PornHub, contain your shock.” 

Mycroft grins. “Mmhm?”

“But it’s hard to get a read on what… what the Daddy thing entails. It’s really… varied?” 

“You say all this as if I know anything about it.” Mycroft sets his tea aside on the nightstand. “Look, it’s just something Ii always thought about. I heard it in porn once and went off like a rocket. It became a masturbatory earworm. Finding older men attractive is what it is, I can’t help my preferences. That the two dovetail so nicely is—” Mycroft waves his hand. “Coincidence.”

Greg snorts. “Uh- _huh.”_

Mycroft stretches out, wriggling down into the nest of pillows. “What about you?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You call me baby, and sweetheart, and good boy.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And?”

Greg huffs. “I like pet names, I always have. And honestly, I always liked the sort of sex we’re having. I like being the caretaker, I like talking dirty during, and intensity. I like to spend most of the time focused on you, because that gets me off. I like… all of that. I just never had a partner want to call me Daddy before and it turns out I _love_ it.” 

“Well then I think that’s enough to be going on with.” Mycroft holds out his hand. “Come lie down with me. You’re too far away.”

“Imperious little shit,” Greg grumbles teasingly, and lays down. “If it helps,” he says once he’s comfortable, “I sometimes think of you as _my baby._ Or _my_ sweet boy.” 

Mycroft is content _down to his molecules._ “Good. I think of you as mine, as well. _My_ Daddy, and no one else’s.” 

“Exactly right,” Greg murmurs. “And you don’t want to call me Daddy outside of bed?” 

“I don’t think so. Not regularly, anyway. It’s not roleplay, it’s just… a small shift in dynamic. And we could have sex without me saying it, it’s not… I like it, but I don’t _need_ it. Well, yes I do, but not all of the time, I don’t think.” 

Greg slips his leg between Mycroft’s, scooting in closer. “I don’t mind either way,” he says softly. “Say it as much as you want. It makes me so fucking happy, and I don’t entirely know why but I don’t think it matters.” He drops a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead. “And there’s nothing you need me to do differently?” 

Mycroft presses his face to Greg’s bare chest. “Just hold me right now, that’s all.” 

“You fucking sweet thing,” Greg mutters, wrapping him up. “I adore you, I’m so glad you’re here.” 

“Me, too,” Mycroft murmurs. He’s drifting, his body finally wound down enough, his mind finally peaceful enough to sleep. “I love you, Daddy.”

He feels Greg’s chest stutter under him. “Oh, sweetheart,” he hears him say. “I love you, too.” 

And then he’s out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Just so you all know, your comments are giving me life. I keep meaning to sit down and reply to at least the most recent ones, and then I write more of this instead. It just makes me so happy that people are enjoying this, as I am having a truly excellent time writing it. I am not sending these chapters through beta, not formally anyway (but shout out to my fave, Paia, for catching some of my whoopses and being generally enthusiastic and supportive and great), because I'm just so eager to keep going and going. And, not gonna lie, because bombing y'all with smut has been brightening my days significantly. So the quicker I can do that the better because god knows we all need bright spots these days. 
> 
> I LOVE YOU GUYS! I'll have more of this soon :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe plan on having something sweet and delicious to go with this chapter. You deserve it.

Greg slips out of bed before Mycroft wakes, and the disturbance doesn't cause so much as a twitch. Poor thing really was flattened, and had lost consciousness more than fell asleep the night before. That was fine, because Greg had needed time to think and stare at him. 

He shuts the bedroom door quietly behind him and goes for a quick shower and shave, then to the kitchen where he’s laid in tons of breakfast supplies. Breakfast had been the one time last week when Mycroft had eaten very well, and Greg plans to feed him up at every possible opportunity, while at the same time avoiding stepping on his insecurities. 

A little complicated, his boy is. 

While he mixes batter for crepes, Greg thinks. 

Is this… are they _together?_ God, is that possible? How will that work? What does Mycroft want out of this? He’d been so furious at the implication that he might move on from Greg, meet and fuck and play around with other people. The thought sends a feeling like a heavy, sinking stone settling in the pit of Greg’s stomach, and a hot flare of premature jealousy in his chest. 

But really, what other option is there? Mycroft’s young, he’s gifted, he’s apparently got a part-time job doing bloody _spy_ things. There will be other people interested. If not right now, then soon. He’s going to grow into himself so much over the next couple of years, and— 

Greg shakes his head at himself while he heats the pan. Because that’s the other thing. 

Mycroft. Is _nineteen._

Is Greg a dirty old man? Is he a predator? Is he, at the very least, taking advantage? He doesn't know. Their dynamic makes it all so hard to pick apart. He’s doing what he’s always done, slipping into caretaker mode, wanting to feed and soothe and coddle. And maybe with some men - or any people - as young as Mycroft that might also carry with it some connotations about things like ‘being kept.’ But Mycroft is, undoubtedly, richer than Greg by many magnitudes, and stable. He doesn't need Greg like that. Greg doesn't want to manage his life for him, either, he just…

He just wants to _love_ him. 

And, Greg thinks, cutting up strawberries and tossing the mascarpone on the counter to soften up a little, _that_ is the _other other_ thing. He told Mycroft he loved him less than a day after they met, and Mycroft said it back, and now they’ve gone and done it a second time, but they shift between Mycroft and Greg and baby boy and Daddy so ambiguously in bed, that those two instances of declaration are mired in that. Is it just roleplay? Greg meant it, he _did,_ and he’s baffled by that, but that’s not the point. What does it mean to have said it? 

What the fuck is he _doing?_

That’s the question of the last two weeks. Greg pours out batter for the first crepe and twirls it around the pan with the spreader. He watches little air bubbles form in the circle of batter. If he and Mycroft are together, _really_ together, can they go on dates? People won’t understand. There will be looks. People will assume things - anything from ‘father and son’ to ‘sugar baby’ to ‘creepy old man.’ Does Greg care? 

He doesn't think he cares, which surprises him, but also… doesn't surprise him. He’s been alone for a while now, and he isn’t interested in a relationship like the one he had with Bette. All the women he’s met since the divorce have been either family-oriented or one night stand-seekers. And he wasn’t kidding when he told Mycroft that before his wife, Greg skewed toward men. He’s been thinking about that a lot lately. 

Greg flips the crepe and a few moments later transfers it to a plate. 

It doesn't take long to make a pile of them, and then he’s cutting up strawberries and sprinkling on minced mint and sugar and balsamic vinegar. He mixes the mascarpone with a little icing sugar, and spoons it into a pretty dish he unearths from the back of a cabinet. He finds a tray from a tea service that’s long missing. Everything fits on it, which is good enough. 

Greg blows out a breath, letting out some tension with it. 

Breakfast looks nice on the tray. It smells good. Mycroft will like it. He’ll look cute and rumpled while he eats it. 

The bedroom door clicks open. Greg pauses, listening, and follows the sound of shuffling, sleepy footsteps into the loo. That door clicks shut. 

Greg smiles to himself. It’s nice having someone else here. It’s nice knowing there’s someone to make breakfast for, who’ll be there for dinner, too. 

The shower switches on, so Greg gets started on the tea. 

It’s a while before the shower switches off, and then a prolonged period of time before the door opens again. Greg expects Mycroft to head back to the bedroom to change into something comfy, and that’s when he plans to go in with the tray. 

Instead, Mycroft appears in the kitchen doorway, nothing but a towel around his waist. 

Greg is only surprised for a second, and then he feels _very_ lucky. “Well, hello,” he says. “Hungry?”

Mycroft nods, but then he drops the towel. It pools around his feet on the floor, and he steps over it on his way across the room. 

“Wha—” Greg’s laughing, delighted, when Mycroft reaches him, and then he’s cut off with a kiss and what feels like miles of shower-warm skin pressing close. Greg kisses back, sighing into Mycroft’s seeking mouth. It’s aggressive, more aggressive than Mycroft has been before. He’s holding tight to Greg, arms flung around his shoulders, body arching into him. 

Mycroft pulls away, grinding his erection against Greg’s hip. “Fuck me,” he breathes. 

Greg’s breath catches in his throat. “What, now?”

“Yes. Now. I’m already ready for you.” 

Greg’s eyes go wide, and his pulse runs away from him. “You… are?”  
  


“Feel,” Mycroft says, then tugs Greg down for another nipping, sucking kiss. 

Greg groans and slips a hand down the cleft of Mycroft’s perky little arse. He finds slickness there; a lot of it. _Oh, jesus._ “Baby,” Greg gasps. 

“Fuck me, _please,_ I want to feel it all day long.” 

“Where?”

“Here, the sofa, the bedroom, I don’t care.” 

Greg goes hot all over. “Here,” he says, voice scraping out of him. “I just need to go get a—” 

Mycroft produces a condom, secreted in his hand behind Greg’s neck. “Get your pants down.” 

Greg’s been puttering around the kitchen in his boxer shorts and a t-shirt. He’s been rock hard since Mycroft dropped the towel. “Give me the condom, and get your hands on the bench. Bend over, stick your arse out for me.”

Mycroft moans, blissful and shivery, and does it, all that pale creamy skin there for Greg’s eyes and hands and, apparently, his cock. Greg gets the condom open and rolled on, and two fingers slid firmly into Mycroft’s sloppy-slick hole. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Greg breathes. “You did such a good job getting ready for me.”

“Fuck me hard, please, Daddy,” Mycroft breathes. Greg thinks it’s the ‘sweetheart’ that does it, tips Mycroft into it this time. That first breathy _Daddy_ has been a complete gut-punch every time. Greg revels in it. He can be Daddy, he can be that person, the one who takes care of Mycroft and gives him everything he wants and needs. 

Greg slips his fingers out and grips himself hard at the base of his prick, sucking air through his teeth. He hasn’t come too quickly in twenty-five years at least, and he’s not going to break that streak now, with a gorgeous arse on display for him. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Don’t worry, love, I’ve got you. Hang on tight, yeah?” 

Mycroft nods. He’s bent at the waist, arms folded on the worktop mere inches from the prettily presented breakfast tray, head pillowed on his arms. His feet are spread apart, and his gorgeous long cock hangs heavily between his legs. 

“I’m right here,” Greg murmurs, slicking the head of his cock over the outside of his baby’s sweet, slippery hole. He shudders. Mycroft’s his. _This_ is his. This _belongs_ to him. As Greg presses past the tight ring of muscle, he _does not care_ if that’s a problem for anyone in this world. He doesn't. He slides home in one long, steady thrust, and Mycroft’s body takes him in so beautifully, so naturally. Greg loses his breath. _“Oh,_ you gorgeous thing.” 

Mycroft rocks back against him. “So good,” he whispers. 

“Yeah,” Greg agrees. “You are.” 

Mycroft laughs, breathless, and this time when he rocks back into Greg, Greg grinds forward to meet him. They both shudder, Mycroft around him and Greg forward over him. He closes his hands over Mycroft’s lovely slim hips and holds him still for the first thrust out then back in. 

“You’re so tight,” Greg grits out. “I love this perfect little arse, you have no fucking idea.”

Mycroft just moans. It tapers off into a whimpering whine as Greg sets a rhythm at last, a nice, steady, heavy thrust in, his hands hauling Mycroft back to meet him. 

_“Oh,_ baby, I’m not going to last in you, it’s just too good.” 

_“Good._ Harder,” Mycroft says, and Greg can tell he meant to sound demanding and missed by a mile, coming off desperate and needy and unbearably hot. 

“Yeah?” Greg leans over him, hands coming down on the worktop on either side of him, and shoves in. “Meet me,” he says roughly beside Mycroft’s ear. “Get that pretty arse bouncing off me, come on. I’m not doing all the bloody work just because you’re so needy.”

 _“God,”_ Mycroft grunts, shoving back hard. “God, _yes.”_

“Come on,” Greg growls, spine going liquid. “Come on, baby, and make Daddy come. Grind on that cock, you can do better than that.”

Mycroft sobs and bucks beneath him, then gets himself under control, rolling his hips back nice and smooth, meeting Greg’s every move. Greg’s eyes start to roll back in his head. 

“Mycroft, baby, I’m gonna—” Greg shifts up enough to get a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, hauling him back even harder, his balls slapping the backs of Mycroft’s thighs. _“Fuck.”_

Greg comes so hard he sees stars. Literally, he slams his eyes shut so tight that there’s a starburst of color behind his eyelids. He buries himself to the hilt and holds there, arse squeezing, body shoving forward in tiny little motions over and over again. He can’t seem to _stop_ coming. 

Mycroft pants and whines beneath him, still writhing against him. He’s risen up on his elbows, and he’s staring off to the side. “Did you,” he gasps. “Did you make _crepes?”_

Greg giggles, a touch hysterical. “Yes,” he says, shuddering with another wave of ungodly pleasure. “Yes, I did.” 

“Oh.” 

Greg drapes himself over his back and kisses the back of his neck. “You are so bloody amazing,” he murmurs, nuzzling along the top of Mycroft’s freckly back. “I’m still _hard,_ oh my god.” 

Mycroft bears down, squeezing him, and rolls his hips. “Ooh,” he sighs out. “Ooh, Daddy, could you keep fucking me?”

“Oh, god, love, I don’t know.” Greg shudders at the overstimulation, a high pitched sound escaping his throat. 

Mycroft does it again. “Try?” 

“Shit,” Greg hisses. He moves tentatively, just fractional moves out and back in. “The condom, I need to get it off.” 

Mycroft makes a pouty sort of sound. “I want to get tested,” he mutters. “Not that there is _any_ logical reason we should have to.” 

“Fine,” Greg agrees easily, pulling out carefully. 

Mycroft hisses. 

Greg pitches the condom into the trashcan and helps Mycroft upright, hauling him back against his chest. “You naughty, naughty boy,” he drawls just beside his ear. “You sexy, perfect thing. I’ve not fucked like that in _years._ I really could’ve kept going. Fucking my come deeper into you til I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m _forty six._ What you’ve done here is basically wizardry.” 

Mycroft shakes with laughter, then chokes on it when Greg slips his arm around him, taking his hot cock in hand. _“Ohh,_ please.” 

“Of course,” Greg murmurs sweetly, pressing firm, wet kisses down the side of his neck. “You don’t have to say please now, not after that. I’m gonna take care of you.” He turns Mycroft gently, leaning him up against the worktop before taking him back in hand. Then, in a stroke of what Greg would call genius, he reaches with his other hand for the breakfast tray, swiping his fingers through the sweet mascarpone icing. 

“What—”

Greg cuts off Mycroft’s question by shoving his fingers into his mouth with a wicked grin, all the while jerking him hard and fast with his other hand. “Good?”

“Mmph, Mmhmm,” Mycroft manages around his fingers, his tongue swiping over them and cheeks hollowing as he sucks. 

“Oh, yeah, sweetheart,” Greg croons. “Suck. Harder. Suck my fingers just how you want me to suck your cock.” He stills his hand, takes it away from Mycroft’s shaft, slaps it down on the countertop. “Show me.” 

Mycroft sucks eagerly, creatively, with relish and gusto. 

Greg pulls his fingers away and swipes them through the bowl again. “One more time,” he says. “I wasn’t paying attention before.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes but he does it, hips swaying forward, his hard prick bobbing and dripping between them. 

Greg grins at him once his fingers are clean again, leans in to lick away the taste of icing sugar, then sinks to the floor. 

Mycroft’s shouting the roof off the place in no time at all, spilling into Greg’s mouth with his hands buried in his hair, chest heaving and knees buckling.

A few moments later from their tangle on the kitchen floor, Greg asks: “So? You hungry?”

  
  


***  
  


Greg gets a lot of pleasure out of watching a sex-drunk Mycroft devour a plate of sweet, tangy crepes. Mycroft knows it, too, and he doesn't complain. In fact, the grin Greg gets from across the table is downright dopey. 

After breakfast and mugs of fresh tea, Greg takes him back to bed. 

“Just let me touch you,” he murmurs, sliding up against Mycroft’s back. “Just like this, no ulterior motive. Just your skin. You smell so good.” 

“I smell like you.”

Greg sighs happily. “Yeah.” 

Mycroft lets him cuddle up behind him, covers Greg’s arms with his own. “I feel exponentially better than I did yesterday afternoon.”

“Good,” Greg says, and kisses his shoulder. “You deserve to relax. Have some fun.”

There’s a lull. 

“And you?” Mycroft asks after a while. “I realize I’ve been… rather selfish, actually. I haven’t asked how your week - the last two weeks - have been.”

Greg gives him a squeeze. “Baby, you know exactly how the last two weeks have been for me. Awfully boring. Everything I told you over text? That’s it. You are the most exciting part of my life at the moment, and probably will continue to be. And that’s perfectly fine with me.” 

“Work is okay?”

“Yeah, it’s work. I don’t have the stress there that I used to.” Greg rubs his face along the back of Mycroft’s shoulder. “No more calls in the middle of the night to go running out in the rain. Well, usually not. There have been times where I’m needed, but it’s nothing like it used to be. And honestly, I do like that. I don’t want to see the worst of this city day in and day out, up close and personal.” 

“Did it ever frighten you?”

“Oh yeah,” Greg murmurs. “A lot. People are terrifying. The things they’re capable of.” 

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees softly. 

Greg wonders what’s under that _yes._ He doesn't push. This warm little bubble isn’t the place. “I don’t love being at a desk so much, but.” Greg sighs. “You know, my promotion to D.I. was the nail in the coffin of my marriage, and the first real feather in the cap of my career. I was _very_ good at it. I put a lot into it, more than I should have. It’s not the nature of the work I miss, but the promise, the goals. I dunno. I’m not… I’m not upset about it. It just is how it is sometimes.”

Mycroft picks up one of Greg’s hands, bringing it to his mouth to kiss each fingertip. “You like helping people, don’t you.” 

“That’s the entire reason I joined the police.”

“That’s what made you good at it.” Mycroft’s lips catch at his thumb, gentle. 

“Yeah, I think so.”

Mycroft curls Greg’s fingers down to his palm. He kisses his knuckles. “You are… I wish I could be like that.”

“Why?” Greg hooks his chin over Mycroft’s shoulder, looking to where they’re hands touch. “What’s wrong with being like you are?”

“I’m... colder than that, I think.” Mycroft runs his fingertips over Greg’s wrist and up to the bend of his elbow. “Everything is mathematics. Probabilities. Analysis. Even people. Even the weight of a life. I’m good at that: calculating. Risk. Loss reduction. _Acceptable_ loss. Collateral damage. And everyone knows it. And they want me to do it for them. They want me to make those decisions, because I can run the numbers and I can be convincing because I have an answer to every question brought to the table. But I don’t know what’s _right._ Or _fair._ I don’t know what I’m going to do.” 

Greg’s heart squeezes in his chest, more and more as Mycroft goes on. “Oh, honey, that’s… that just proves that you are _not_ cold.” 

Mycroft shrugs a shoulder. “I find it difficult to care. _Really_ care. I think I’m bad at it.” 

“You aren’t.” Greg kisses his cheek. “Turn a little, let me kiss you for real.” 

Mycroft does, and his lips go sweet and pliant under Greg’s. 

“You aren’t bad at it, baby,” Greg says when they part. “I know that sounds dismissive. But I really don’t think you are. I… I promise to help you see that, yeah?”

_“Greg.”_

“Shh,” Greg soothes. Mycroft doesn't say his name much. It hits him hard in the chest, the emotion in it. “Let’s take a little nap. Then maybe we could go somewhere, do something together. Let me spoil you somewhere. Buy you sweets and hold your hand. Okay?”

Mycroft just brings Greg’s knuckles back up to his lips, which are trembling now. “Okay.”

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft dozes, and Greg thinks. After an hour or so passes, he decides to get ahead of things - get up, put on some actual clothes, and start gathering up the breakfast things so he can load the dishwasher. 

He’s just finishing up when Mycroft shuffles in and wraps arms around him from behind, squeezing briefly before he lets go and backs away so Greg can turn and catch his face in his hands. 

“Hey beautiful,” Greg murmurs, dropping a kiss on those upturned lips. 

Mycroft’s face does something complicated, some mix of bliss and confusion and disbelief. “Hello,” he says, voice tight with whatever feelings are crowding up on him now. 

Greg has a feeling Mycroft doesn't process those naturally; that it tires him out when he and Greg talk like they do, fuck like they do. So much emotion, and so raw. Greg just kisses him again and pulls away with a quick little rub of noses. 

“I have an idea,” he says, swiping the kitchen towel over the worktop one more time to get rid of any stray crumbs. 

“Oh?”

Greg hangs the towel on its hook stuck to the side of his oven and turns, leaning back against the same worktop he’d bent Mycroft over just a couple of hours ago. 

“Yeah,” he says, unable to help the grin taking over his face when he remembers that fact. “So, back when I got divorced, I had a bit of… a bit of a hard time, let’s say. I just felt… well, not great.” 

The truth was, he’d had a bit of a spiral, convinced himself he’d fucked himself over and squandered his only chance of not dying alone. Then after a really rough murder case involving a family annihilator and some really disturbing sex offenses all bundled up in one, he’d had to take a sabbatical from work to get his head together. But he wasn’t about to get into all that _now._

“Oh? Mycroft prompts again, a little line of concern appearing between his eyebrows. 

Greg realizes he’s paused too long and shakes his head. “Right. So I found myself at loose ends, and I needed something to do with my days, and a friend recommended a place to me. I’d like to take you there, if you’re open to it.”

Mycroft tilts his head to one side, his sharp eyes going a bit out of focus. He’s trying to deduce what it is Greg wants him to do with him. He’s not getting there. Greg grins. 

  
“I _could_ just tell you,” Greg teases. “You don’t have to be brilliant-bordering-on-psychic _all_ the time.” 

Mycroft snorts and shakes his head before stepping in close, body leaning into Greg’s like they’ve done this a thousand times - cuddled in the kitchen, dishwasher running quietly in the background with a low hum. 

For a moment, Greg’s breathless. What if that happened? What if they did do that a thousand times? What if he could keep him here forev— _Stop. Cool your bloody jets, for fucksake._

“You can tell me,” Mycroft says, his hands slipping sweetly up Greg’s arms, to his shoulders, to his neck. “Or you can surprise me. Anything you have in mind will be perfect. And to be honest, I love surprises. I just never get them. Too much psychic accuity.”

Greg kisses him, because he has to. Because Mycroft is sleep-mussed and soft, and Greg loves that he wants to be surprised; that he has faith in Greg, trusts him to plan where they’re going. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft stands in front of the shelter beside Greg, and his face is unreadable. It’s _blank._

“Oh, shit,” Greg says. “Listen, maybe this was the wrong idea— that’s alright! Really! We can go somewhere else—” 

Mycroft takes his hand after a moment. “No,” he says. “I… you came here?” 

“I volunteered here,” Greg elaborates. 

Mycroft’s fingers spasm around his. “My god,” he murmurs. “Are you really this good?”

Greg snorts. “You haven’t been inside yet. You’ll see. I was being _entirely_ selfish.” 

Inside, Greg is greeted by familiar faces. He doesn't let go of Mycroft’s hand, and Mycroft doesn't pull away. To Greg’s relief, no one seems phased by this. 

“I wanted to bring my friend,” Greg says. “See if he wanted to maybe join up, come and visit sometimes.”

“Oh, lovely,” cries Fatima, the girl behind the desk today. She holds out a hand for Mycroft to shake and introduces herself. 

“Mycroft,” he says, a touch shy in the face of her effervescence. 

“Just head back, Mr Lestrade,” Fatima says. “You know where everything is. None of our tough customers for the new boy, but feel free to hang out with anyone you like!”

Greg thanks her and tugs Mycroft back through a door marked _Staff Only._ Beyond it, things are rather noisy. 

“So,” Greg says. “Are you a cat person or a dog person?”  
  


Mycroft’s face lights up. “Both.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“I didn’t know your last name,” Mycroft says later, sitting in a little booth of a room, a tiny grey kitten in his lap, fast asleep. “Isn’t that strange?”  
  


“Darlin’?” Greg’s got his own, a big old fat tortoiseshell named LaLa who’s an old faithful at the shelter, something of a permanent resident who calmly watches over the other cats who come and go. “I _still_ don’t know yours.”

Mycroft laughs. “Oh, _no,”_ he murmurs, eyes on the little cat. “It’s Holmes, D.C.I. Lestrade. Pleasure to meet you.”

Greg quirks a smile at him. “Charmed, I’m sure,” he drawls. 

Mycroft strokes a gentle finger over the kitten’s back. “Thank you for this,” he says. “This is fantastic.”

“Meant what I said,” Greg tells him. “If you like this, just talk to Fatima. She’ll get you set up as a volunteer and you can come as often as you like. Sit with some animals so they get used to people, or take them for walks. Help the staff with cleaning and feeding, if that’s something you’d like to do. It’s really nice, good for the soul, in my opinion.” 

Mycroft looks back at him, and his eyes are incredibly soft. “I know what you’re doing,” he says. 

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t trying to be subtle.” Greg winks at him, then turns his attention to LaLa. “This lady knows all about it. Sometimes you just need to be around smaller things with bigger hearts than you. Right? Right.” He looks up and pretends to be sheepish about it. “And after awhile you find yourself talking to cats like they’re human babies, and that’s when you know you’re still a decent person, under all the other shit.” 

Mycroft leans across the narrow space and kisses him quickly. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m going to come back here.” 

“Perfect,” Greg says up against his lips, and steals one more peck before making a big show of lavishing all his most loving gazes on LaLa. Inside, he’s crowing. A victory. Something he could do. Something he could teach. Provide.

How had he ever lived, completely unaware how good this would feel? 

Mycroft dangles wriggling fingers over the grey kitten’s face, inviting it to bat at and nibble on them. The kitten sinks it’s little needle claws into his hand, and Mycroft laughs, doesn't even flinch. 

Greg loves him, and feels less and less strange about that by the second. 

  
  


***

  
  


On the pavement outside the animal shelter, Greg says, “Now you pick something. Take me somewhere.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Really?”

“Yeah, of course. All of London is right here. And over there. And over there.” Greg points around as he talks, and Mycroft laughs with him, grabbing his hand and hanging onto it. “Take me somewhere you like.” 

Mycroft nods. “I know a place,” he says, then tilts his face up for Greg to kiss. 

Greg forgets to be nervous. Forgets to worry about what people might think when they see them. He hasn’t kissed a man in public in a _very_ long time. So long that when he’s thought about doing this (often, in the two weeks since the night they met) he’s expected some sort of muscle memory to urge him to look around first, make sure they were in a safe enough place for it. But it doesn't come. All that happens is they kiss. 

It’s simple. It’s good. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft has Greg drive them out to Bromley and Crystal Garden Park. 

He parks and shoots Mycroft a look. “Is it the dinosaurs?”

Mycroft grins. “Partly,” he says. “Come on.” 

They walk around and for the most part, stay quiet. It’s lovely. The place is a little busy, but it’s a huge park. They easily find space to themselves when they want it. Mycroft leans on the railing beside Greg and lets out a happy sigh, eyes tracking over the sculptures.

“Before you think me very immature,” Mycroft says, “you should know that I loved this place as a child, and I still do, but it’s… for an embarrassing reason.” 

Greg can’t wait to hear this. “Oh?” He knocks his elbow against Mycroft’s. “I’m dying to know.”

Mycroft snorts. “It’s… _nerdy,_ for lack of a better word.”

“Well,” Greg says reasonably, “most kids go through a paleontology phase.”

Mycroft winces and chews his lip. “I… did not have one.” He turns his back on the dinosaurs and looks up at Greg with the wry little smile that makes him look older than his years. Like he’s learned way earlier than most that taking oneself seriously is pointless. “I had a Queen Victoria phase.”

Greg has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek so he doesn't laugh - he doesn't want it taken the wrong way. “Sorry,” he says, fighting hard against the frisson of amused affection that goes through him. His face wants to stretch to twice its side with the force of his grin. “You _what?”_

“Yes,” Mycroft sighs. “I couldn’t tell you why. I just… loved her. Saw a film about her on the telly at Uncle Rudy’s when I was, oh, maybe six? And fell arse over elbow in love.” 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Greg manages to say, laughing a _little_ now. “You precious thing.”

Of course this very smart, very posh boy, with the overly-formal speech patterns and quirky little mannerisms would have something like this as a secret. It’s funny, yeah, but Greg is utterly charmed. Greg’s own embarrassing childhood fixation was an encyclopaedic knowledge of airplane makes and models and the corny printed sheets he’d kept on his bed well into secondary school. Mycroft? No, of course, Mycroft had a crush on _Queen Victoria._

Mycroft covers his face with one hand. “I can’t explain it, who knows what I was thinking. I think it was the coronation portrait that struck me dumb, and then— Anyway, this is perhaps my most well-kept secret and I’m teling it to you.”

“What, that Queen Victoria is the only woman you’ve ever loved?”

“Yes,” Mycroft laughs. “That’s it. That, or maybe she’s the only woman I’d ever want to _be._ It was all very confusing to my little mind at the time. Anyway I begged to see the glass palace, and I was devastated when Sherlock told me it had burned down long before we were born. He did bring me here, though, before he went to Uni. I was small, and he was still… sober. Safe. I don’t know how to say it nicely. We came to London to visit our uncle and Sherlock surprised me with a day here.” 

Greg reaches down and takes Mycroft’s hand. “Thank you for bringing me, then,” he says. “I’m honored. Seriously, no jokes.” 

Mycroft’s wistful, slightly embarrassed smile goes warmer. “You understand.” 

“I think so.” Greg squeezes his hand. “And I think you’re _adorable.”_

Mycroft laughs. “Yes, well. Good.” He clears his throat and backs away from the railing. “Come on, let’s go see the maze.” 

“Oooh, let’s,” Greg murmurs, going along easily and leaning down to whisper in Mycroft’s ear. “I’ll kiss you somewhere in there, and you can pretend I’m Prince Albert.” 

Mycroft shoves him hard, hip-checking him across the path. “Oh, _very_ fuck you,” he says, but he’s laughing, _really_ laughing, and it’s fairly gorgeous. 

Greg laughs with him and wheedles his way back against his side, fending off Mycroft’s batting hands and catching them, holding them still. It’s a little sideways wrestle, practically dancing, half an embrace. 

They walk on and Greg’s just gotten the last of his giggles out, and so has Mycroft, snugged up under Greg’s arm, his own wrapped loosely along Greg’s back. 

“You’ll have to speak with a German accent,” Mycroft says. “Don’t forget.” 

Greg laughs so hard he has to stop walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My note at the beginning was right, wasn't it? What are you waiting for, go look up a good crepe recipe! ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you sweet fantastic perfect babies. You have all said such kind things in your comments, but a good number of you have mentioned or implied or straight up SAID in these words that this fic has functioned as a serotonin boost for you. And I just really need you to know that that is exactly what it is for me. And your enjoyment and comments and willingness to roll with me on this are just sweet dopamine icing on top of this cake. Thanks, from the very bottom of my struggling heart. I'm having such a good time with you all.

After their impromptu day out, Mycroft feels himself melting slowly into the passenger seat of Greg’s BMW, his mind on some cloud somewhere, and his body more than happy to be still and trust that he’ll get where he’s going safely. It’s a good feeling, and one Mycroft can’t remember feeling before, at least not since he was small. Maybe. Possibly not even then, he wouldn’t know. 

The last stop of the day had been a long, indulgent lunch that consisted mostly of desserts, and the sort of easy talking Mycroft had never experienced with anyone else outside of his brother. And again, he was very small back then, and sometimes he thinks he’s misremembering it. 

Greg’s hand moves frequently from the gear shift to Mycroft’s hand, or his knee, a couple of times even to his shoulder, neck, and the back of his head to scritch through his hair. Mycroft tries not to lean into all of it like a contented cat, but between the late afternoon sun, the cozy leather seats, the sleepiness that comes with a bit of a sugar crash, and the unbelievable pleasure of being touched like that, that’s basically what he is. He could curl up in Greg’s lap right now, anywhere, happy to be petted. 

And he knows that if he wanted, he could do that other thing cats tend to do. Knock over vases and scratch up the drapes, knowing all the while they’ll still be wanted. 

Mycroft hauls himself out of that ridiculous analogy, and though it’s like swimming through molasses to do it, he’s glad he does, because when he rolls his head to the side to look at Greg’s profile while he drives, the next thought that drips in sugar-sweet ribbons through Mycroft’s fuzzy head is:  _ Daddy.  _ And then:  _ mine.  _

Greg flicks him a quick glance. “Something on my face?” His voice is soft, teasing. 

Mycroft covers his hand on the gear stick with his own. “You should get a cat,” he says, which isn’t what he  _ meant _ to say, he doesn't think. But once he’s said it, he knows he’s right. 

Greg ( _ Daddy)  _ smiles indulgently. “Oh, yeah? Why?”

“You are a cat person,” he replies, certain of this. “It’s the right thing to do. Take one home with you next time you go to the shelter.” 

“Bossy, bossy,” Greg ( _ Daddy, _ Mycroft thinks again on another happy sigh) tsks. “Maybe. I’ve thought about it.”

They’re at a stoplight, so Mycroft leans across the center console and presses his lips gently to  _ Da—  _ Greg’s?  _ Daddy’s. _ —stubbled jaw. It’s just a brush of his mouth, which he repeats over the fabric of his sleeve against his shoulder, and then he presses his forehead right there. He sighs,  _ again.  _

“You’re in a sweet mood,” Greg murmurs. 

“Mm,” Mycroft agrees. “Are we nearly home?”

He hears a catch of breath but can’t seem to focus on it. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Almost home.”

  
  


***

  
  


The door shuts behind them, and then Mycroft finds himself gathered up and pressed against it, his mouth taken in a gentle, but deep, consuming kiss. He shudders into it, wraps his arms tightly around Greg’s shoulders. The kiss is good, it’s so good, Mycroft feels… just… so incredible. 

“Wrap your legs around me.”

Mycroft gasps and does it, helped by strong hands lifting his thighs so he’s held, pinned to the door and wrapped around a warm, loving body that rocks against him gently in tiny movements and rolling closeness. Mycroft gives himself up to it, letting his mouth go open and welcoming, his body lax and clinging. 

“Baby.” 

“Mm?”

“I wanna make you feel so good.” 

Mycroft sighs and buries his face in Greg’s warm neck. “Then take me to bed.” 

He is carried there, and that’s never happened to him before. No one has ever carried him and kissed him like this, no one has ever lowered him down to a pile of pillows and undressed him slowly, stopping between buttons and sleeves to kiss him more, to say sweet things in his ear. Once they’re both stripped bare, Greg rolls them, settling Mycroft on top of himself.

“Let me look at you,” he murmurs. 

Mycroft sits up without a moment’s hesitation. It doesn't worry him at all, being seen like this. The realization pebbles his skin and makes his head feel strangely light. From this vantage point, he can see so much of Greg, too, and god, he loves the view. 

It strikes him that this is only the second full day they have spent together, and yet he can’t imagine ever living without this again. He hadn’t been exaggerating that first night when he told Greg that he was everything Mycroft had ever wanted. Mycroft cannot believe his luck. It’s as if the hand of God (which he doesn't even believe in) had plucked his ideal partner out of his head and dropped him on a barstool right in front of him. It all had to have been choreographed. Mycroft had been convinced since he was very young, since more or less the moment he understood what it was to be attracted to someone, that there was no way. No possible way. He’d thought that he would maybe manage to meet someone who checked the boxes when he himself was older. 

He hadn’t particularly minded the idea of waiting. He  _ had _ minded the chafe of finding ways to parley passing, surface level attraction to boys his own age, most of them too rich and spoiled for their own good, clumsy and pointless and yet convinced of their own high market value. 

The man between Mycroft’s thighs is a dream come true. Handsome, intelligent but not ridiculously so (Mycroft thinks genius is awful, wishes he couldn’t claim it, and can’t stand it in others, as it’s usually wasted on them anyway), and kind, god,  _ so kind.  _ Rougher than Mycroft, more  _ real _ than he or anything he’s ever touched has ever been. Silver-white temples and chest hair and stubble and an absolutely filthy mouth. Bigger, stronger, surer than Mycroft. Better than Mycroft, a fundamentally  _ better person.  _

Mycroft can’t hide from him. He can’t avert his eyes and flush with embarrassment and worry about the way his belly folds here or there when he isn’t sitting ramrod straight, or the way his chest hair is always going to look a bit too sparse and gingery. None of it fucking matters anymore. 

Greg reaches for him. “You’re thinking,” he says. 

“I can’t help it.” Mycroft goes down willingly, plastering himself to Greg’s chest, kissing him and nuzzling at him and melting, melting, melting. “They’re good thoughts, though. I promise.” 

“Good.” Greg tips them to the side, grinds them together aimlessly, tangles up their legs and grips Mycroft at the top of a thigh and the back of a shoulder. “You’re so beautiful,” he sighs to Mycroft’s throat. “What are you doing with me, hm?”

“Don’t,” Mycroft says quietly. “Don’t say that, don’t ask me that. You’re wonderful, just perfect. I love you, please don’t doubt me.  _ Please, _ Greg.”

“I don’t doubt you.” He presses their foreheads together. “I promise, baby, I don’t. I’m sorry, I was just joking. I feel so lucky and I don’t— I don’t know what to do with it.” 

“Keep touching me?”

Greg grins and rolls them over, pressing Mycroft down into the pillows again. “Yeah,” he says, and hitches Mycroft’s legs around his waist. “Love having these wrapped around me.” 

Mycroft hums and squeezes his thighs and crosses his ankles, drapes his arms around Greg’s neck and lets himself be kissed, liquid and deep, like they’d done against the door. They rock together, pricks rubbing and leaving sticky precome smudges. Mycroft feels himself start to slide into the lovely place where Greg becomes  _ Daddy  _ and only  _ Daddy, _ and remembers ending up there in the car, how soft-edged and safe it felt. That’s how it feels now. He knows that he can ask for anything. He can  _ beg _ if he wants. He knows he’ll be given anything he asks for either way. 

He doesn't want to ask or beg for anything, though. He wants to exist only for his Daddy, his Daddy’s pleasure. He doesn't know how to ask for that. All he can manage is surrendering to the kisses, hoping he can simply show that he wants to be taken and held, lovingly used.

“So sweet for me today,” Daddy murmurs between kisses. “Like my little doll. Can I lay you out? Pose you?” 

Mycroft moans, and it’s involuntary, he couldn’t stop it if he tried. That sounds so good, he would  _ love  _ that. 

“Yeah?”

He nods, frantic. “Yes.” 

Daddy rocks against him again, a teasing roll, and then he sits up, dark eyes taking in all of Mycroft’s parts, planning where he wants them to go. Mycroft waits, and smiles when his left arm is placed carefully up, bent at the elbow. It exposes his side and places his hand near his head. As if he is lounging, in repose for a painting or a photo. His fingers are gently posed into a loose curl. His Daddy kisses a line down the posed arm, soft and fluttery, but Mycroft keeps still. He even holds through a ticklish nuzzle against his armpit, then at the sensitive soft skin over his ribs. 

“That’s good,” Daddy tells him. He unwraps one of Mycroft’s legs from around his hips, and then the other. He arranges them, one stretched out straight, the other bent at the knee and splayed. “Jesus, your skin is something else.” 

He moves Mycroft’s other hand to his cock, wrapping his fingers around it, before he slips down, buries his face in the soft inside of the open thigh and then sucks there. 

Mycroft doesn't move - doesn't even jump - but he does moan and squeeze himself tightly in hand, the sound coming from him as a stuttering cry that must get his point across, because his Daddy sucks harder, adds teeth and  _ oh, god—  _

“Oh—” Mycroft does jerk a little as a hot tongue soothes the sting.  _ “Oh.”  _

“Shhh, sweet boy.” Daddy kisses the suck mark and then noses under Mycroft’s bollocks. “Mmm, you smell so good.” He sucks there, too. “My pretty doll.” 

Mycroft shivers. 

“Should I suck you?” 

“Nngh—” 

“Eat you out?”

Mycroft gasps. 

“Fuck you nice and slow and sweet?” Daddy lifts his head from between Mycroft’s legs as a trembling groan chokes its way out of his throat. “I think that’s the winner.” 

“Anything,” Mycroft pants. “Anything you want, I’ll be so good for you.”

“You’re already so good for me.”

Mycroft is slicked and fingered open in what feels like no time at all. He is so carried away by it, and so intent on staying just as he’s been arranged, that he barely notices time passing at all. 

“We’re gonna bring this leg up, too,” Daddy tells him, and soon both legs are bent and spread, Mycroft’s feet together. 

He has never in his life felt so exposed. 

“Gonna fuck you just like this,” Daddy murmurs. “Nice and deep.” He lifts Mycroft’s feet in his hands and presses them against his own chest, tilting Mycroft’s hips up as he moves between his thighs. “God, look at you. You’re so...bendy” 

Mycroft huffs a strangled laugh. He doesn't remember the condom being put on, but it’s there, and he thinks for the umpteenth time that the only thing that would make this better would be the feel of a bare cock pressing into him - which it does now, and the condom really doesn't matter in the end because the stretch is glorious. 

“Oh, honey. Always so tight and hot for me.” 

Mycroft can only whimper and try to breathe. 

“Slow,” Daddy murmurs, and Mycroft thinks it’s more to himself than to Mycroft. “Gonna take it slow, watch you get desperate for it.” 

Mycroft gazes up at him and knows he must look utterly besotted and adoring. That’s how he feels. He isn’t trying to hide it. 

“You’ve stayed still for me,” Daddy murmurs, his hands moving from Mycroft’s ankles to his knees, fingers stroking over his shins. “Do you like being my doll? My little toy?” One hand strays to Mycroft’s chest, pinches a nipple. 

“God, yes,” Mycroft sobs. “Yes, yes, I’ll be anything you want.”    


“Just want you.” 

Mycroft’s legs are eased open, pressed up to his chest, and Daddy leans in, hooking his arms under his knees to hold him up and open for his slow, rolling thrusts. Mycroft wants to reach for him, wants to move the hand he has on his own cock and try to make himself come, to seek some resolution to the tension building in his gut. He doesn't. He won’t. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” Daddy murmurs against his knee. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, Mycroft, I promise.” 

Mycroft heaves with it.  _ “Daddy.”  _

“That’s right baby. That’s who I am. And what are you?”

“Wha— I don’t know?” 

“Yes, you do.” 

Mycroft trembles with every thrust, every tight, blunt press against his prostate. His hand spasms around his prick. His free fingers twitch with the need to touch something. “I’m…” 

“Go on.” 

“I’m y-yours. Yours.” 

“And?”

Mycroft sobs and shakes his head. 

“Come on now, it’ll make me so happy, Mycroft, tell me what a good boy you are for me.” 

“I’m— I’m good. I’m a good boy.” He could swear that his blood cells are burning.

_ “Yes.”  _

Mycroft is going to  _ die. _ “I’m  _ your _ good boy.” 

A hard thrust, a shove, and Mycroft’s legs are pulled with slick hands, wrapped around his Daddy’s hips one more time, and there are fingers lacing with his, up next to his head, pinned to the pillows. 

“That’s right you are,” Daddy says, rough and scratchy in his ear. “That’s what you are, and you’re never to forget it. You’re mine, and you’re  _ perfect. _ Aren’t you?” 

_ “Yes.”  _ Mycroft can’t help it; he strokes himself, his hand sandwiched between their bodies. “Fuck— Fuck!”

“You’re gonna come for me.” 

“I—” 

“Yeah, you are. Come on. Jerk that pretty cock with those pretty fingers, and come with me inside you, let me feel it.”

Mycroft squeezes the hand in his and he arches, his entire body straining toward release. “I can’t—” 

“I’ve got you. Let go. Mycroft,  _ let it go, _ give it to me.” 

Mycroft nearly blacks out. 

Maybe he does black out. 

All he knows is that the pleasure is white-hot and blinding, and then it is nothing but velvety blackness and the rock of his body as he’s pounded through the aftershocks. 

He blinks his eyes open just in time to watch the twist of his Daddy’s handsome face when he comes, hips pumping and then jerking into him.    


Mycroft thinks he’s dead. Maybe he has been for two weeks, and this is his delayed entry into heaven. 

“Oh, god.” 

Mycroft can only make a slurred, questioning noise. 

“I can’t believe— I don’t understand how— Fuck, I love you, god, you’re so—”

Mycroft reaches up with a drunken hand to pat reassuringly at his chest. “Shh,” he slurs. “Shh, just… let me enjoy it.”

There’s a pause, and then laughter, mostly silent, shaking them both. “You little brat.” 

“Don’t pull out yet, please. Just… I need. A minute.” 

“Of course, sweetheart.” A broad hand pets at his chest. “You’re all red here, so pretty.” 

“Greg?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I don’t want to leave tomorrow.”

He’s gathered up in strong arms. “Oh, honey, don’t think about that now. Shhh, don’t. We’re not going to stay apart as long this time. You’re fine, love, you’re fine, I’ve got you.”

“Daddy,” Mycroft murmurs, rubbing his face against any part of him he can reach. 

“Baby,” Greg replies with a grin, pressing it to Mycroft’s cheek. 

  
  


***

  
  


All of that happens in the precious slanting light of the golden hour, and by the time they untangle and stumble in and out of a lazy shower, it’s dusk. 

“I’ll order us takeaway,” Greg says, steering Mycroft to the lounge. “Do you like curry?”

“Yes,” Mycroft answers, trying to fight against the direction. “Wait—” 

“It’s fine. Just relax, love, I’ll be right back.”

_ “No,”  _ Mycroft says, and it’s much more forceful than he’d meant it to be - though he’d been thinking, vaguely in some level of his mind, that he  _ wanted _ to be forceful, but he  _ shouldn’t.  _ He grits his teeth. “I mean—” 

“Hey.” Greg stops steering him by the shoulders and hugs him instead, arms wrapping round from behind. “Sorry, I’m just hauling you around, telling you what to do.”

“It’s not that,” Mycroft says, relaxing into the hold. “It’s this, I just don’t want you to let go.” 

Greg squeezes him. “You know, actually, I don’t want to let go, so… convenient, that.” 

And he shuffles them, his front plastered to Mycroft’s back, to the kitchen so he can retrieve his mobile. 

Mycroft glows, tipping his head back against his Daddy’s - oh, there it is - shoulder, watching him dial. 

“Yellow curry?” He checks while the call rings out. 

“Ooh, definitely,” Mycroft replies, hushed in case the restaurant picks up. “And spring rolls, if you like them?”

“Love them.”

Once the order is placed, they shuffle to the lounge and fall down onto the sofa in a tangle. 

“I’m going to give you a key.”

Mycroft’s breath catches and he nearly coughs with it, choking on air. “What?”

“If you want, I mean.” Hands stroke soothingly over Mycroft’s back. “If it’s weird, then that’s alright, you don’t have to take it. But I want you to come here. Whenever. I said it before, but… Mycroft, I really mean it.” 

Mycroft struggles up onto one elbow. “Greg, I could be a murderer.”

He laughs, eyes lighting up, body shaking against Mycroft’s. “What?”

“I could be lying to you. I could be conning you, planning to rob you blind. You want to give me a key.”

“Baby, if you’re some sort of con man, you are  _ very  _ detailed with this cover.” He shakes his head. “What are you gonna steal from this flat, anyway? I don’t own anything that would get you much at a pawn shop. What, the keys to my car? Fine, I guess, but I’m a  _ cop, _ I’ll  _ find  _ you. Take you down.”

Mycroft sniffs and settles back down into Greg’s gently tugging hands. “I could be a genius grifter, you don’t know.” 

“God, you’re adorable. Stop it, though, just take the key. You work so hard, you have your uncle to think of. It’ll be hard to make plans sometimes. So, if you have a key, you can show up late and crawl into bed with me if you like. Come over early and I’ll make you breakfast before I go to work and you head to your classes. Doesn't matter. I just want you to have it.”

Mycroft holds his breath for a moment, processing that. “What… what is this? What are we doing?”

“I don’t know, but I like it.” 

Mycroft covers his face with his hands and whispers  _ Daddy _ into his palms. 

“It’s all fine,” say warm lips against his cheek. Against his eyelids. “Today was so good. I can’t wait for tomorrow, Mycroft, honestly, you could  _ move in _ if you didn’t have things to handle, you know? And every single one of my friends, my sister,  _ everyone _ would call me crazy. And I wouldn’t care.”

Mycroft’s heart swells in his chest. “Oh.” 

“I  _ want _ you.” 

_ “Oh.”  _

“Obviously.” 

Mycroft can't stop his smile from growing. “Obviously,” he echoes. 

“Just take the key,” says Greg, and it’s definitely  _ Greg  _ in that exasperated voice that makes him sound closer to Mycroft’s age. “And pick a film. We’re cuddling in front of the telly for the rest of the night.”

_ “Just  _ cuddling? Mycroft checks, stretching suggestively against Greg’s body. 

“Young man,” Greg murmurs, pressing his thumb to Mycroft’s full lower lip, “control yourself.” 

Mycroft smiles and flutters his lashes. “Oh, no thank you,” he says. 

And that’s how it comes to pass that when the delivery man arrives with their food, Mycroft’s hard again with his cock halfway down Greg’s throat, his hands fisted in silvery strands, his mouth spilling out raspy versions of the word  _ Daddy _ until Greg is both laughing and moaning around Mycroft’s cock, sloppy and indulgent and wonderful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd had some wine when I wrote this chapter so if it was slightly fuzzy round the edges, blame the good people who put Merlot in a box with a spigot.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is mostly taking turns being very nice to each other, which, isn't that what we all need these days?

Over the next few weeks, Greg figures out a few things: 1) he was  _ very _ lonely, before; 2) he isn’t anymore; 3) he has no idea how to handle a nineteen year old genius with the weight of the world on his shoulders - at least not when he’s in a strop (a real one, not one he’s faking in order to get Greg hard); and 4) he has a thing for messing up neatly buttoned and pressed clothes, as well as the complicated man inside them. 

Sometimes, all of these things crystallize at once. 

For example, when he stirs from a late night doze on his sofa at the sound of the flat door clicking shut and the chain lock jingling into place. Before he’s blinked away the exhaustion of a long day fighting with his boss and taking a verbal beating from the community task force against knife crime, he has an armful of Mycroft, who simply insinuates himself on top of him while also yanking the throw blanket away so he can slip his cold hands up under Greg’s shirt. 

“Baby—” 

“Shh,” Mycroft hisses. “Just. Not yet.” 

Greg shifts under him, his back screaming from the awful desk chair he can’t get the office manager to replace. “Sweetheart.” 

_ “No,”  _ Mycroft says mutinously. 

Greg huffs and braces himself, and grits his teeth through the twinge in his lumbar spine as he wrestles Mycroft over and then under him. He pins him with a knee between his legs and both hands holding tightly to his wrists. “Brat,” he accuses. “I’m bloody  _ tired.  _ What’s happened?”

“Nothing.” Mycroft doesn't struggle under him, but doesn't relax either. “I’m just. I—” He grits his teeth. “It doesn't matter.” 

Greg hasn’t seen him like this since their first morning together over a month ago. He tries to remember what he did then. He’s still so out of it, and so  _ tired.  _ “Mycroft,” he says firmly. “You know, if you need something you should just ask for it. I’m not in the mood for games.” 

Mycroft flinches under him. “I’m not playing a  _ game.”  _

And Greg remembers him insisting through his teeth:  _ I’m not a child.  _ He sighs. “Love— It’s late. Is something upsetting you? Did something go wrong? Everything went okay with the work thing last night?” 

Mycroft relaxes,  _ barely.  _ But he doesn't answer.

Greg’s about had it with this, to be quite honest. “You can’t just expect me to know. It’s pretty bloody obvious you’re overloaded and exhausted, because  _ once again—  _ don’t make that face, thanks— once again, you have overdone it, and probably your mum called and set your teeth on edge, and you needed to be here after all that, which is  _ fine.  _ But I’m not your bloody…  _ attention machine.”  _

Mycroft practically  _ gasps,  _ a sharp inhalation before his shoves up against Greg’s hips and hands, trying to struggle out from under him. 

Greg would laugh, but he’s tired. “Stop it,” he snaps. “Now.” 

Mycroft subsides, and his sharp, cool eyes dart over Greg’s face. “I—” 

“Let me take care of you,” Greg says, gently this time. “What did you come here for?”

Mycroft’s brow pinches. “I just…” 

His expression crumples, and Greg catches his shoulders, holds him steady. “It’s okay.” 

“I just can’t  _ think,” _ Mycroft manages out of his clenched jaw. “I can’t anymore, I  _ can’t.” _

Greg shakes his head and hauls him up into a tight hug. “Baby,” he says. “Okay. Okay, then. You don't have to.” 

“I don’t want attention,” Mycroft mumbles. “I want  _ you.” _

Greg feels bad for all of a second, then rolls his eyes at himself.  _ Get it together, dummy,  _ he thinks, and tightens his arms. “You have me,” he says gently. “You always do. Wanna go to bed?”

Mycroft nods against Greg’s chest, and goes willingly when Greg gets to his feet and holds out a hand. 

“I’m bloody exhausted,” Greg tells him once they’re in the bedroom and getting undressed. “So we’re going to sleep.” 

“Mmhmm.” Mycroft fumbles with his cufflinks, and Greg realizes he’s wearing the remains of what was probably a really nice suit - dark grey, beautifully tailored trousers and a slim fitting white shirt with a subtle stripe to it, which is echoed diagonally in the loosened tie, which is grey with the same tasteful shift in color, fine little threads of silver through it. 

“You’re all dressed up,” Greg murmurs, having shucked his vest and tossed it to the side. “Let me help.” He steps in and takes Mycroft’s wrist in hand. “Where’s your jacket?” 

“Left it at my Uncle’s.” Mycroft’s head bows between them, watching Greg unfasten the cufflinks one sleeve after another. “There was a waistcoat too.” 

“I bet you looked fucking edible,” Greg says, meaning it  _ fervently,  _ but also hoping to distract him with a little teasing. He undoes the tie and slides it out of Mycroft’s collar. “What was the occasion?”

Mycroft’s lips twist. “Oh, just the usual. Casually selling my adult life to the highest bidder.”

Greg blinks, fingers pausing on the line of shirt buttons. “What?”

“An old colleague of Uncle Rudy’s came to dinner. I didn’t know until the last possible moment. I don’t… I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know I’m very lucky, that… that my Uncle wants the best for me— the best use of my… of me.” 

Greg shakes his head and attacks the buttons again, taking out the flare of anger on their threads. “You are not a commodity.” 

“Wrong,” Mycroft says gently. “That’s precisely what I am.”

Greg yanks the shirt out of his trousers and shoves it off his slim shoulders. “Goddamn it, Mycroft—”

“This is what I wanted,” Mycroft says, lifting his arms so Greg can get rid of the undershirt. “I just wanted this, because you really think that, you really—” 

Greg tugs him down into a kiss, and he has to be careful not to hold his face too tightly, not to grip him as hard as he’d like (hard enough to fuse them together, that would be good), and to be gentle with his teeth. When he backs away to breathe, he doesn't go far, keeping them nose to nose and breathing the same air. “Of course I think that,” he says. “It’s the truth. You don’t have to do anything, Mycroft, that you don’t want to do with your life. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

“Debatable,” Mycroft says. He looks really fantastic standing there in the trousers tailored perfectly to his slim hips and long legs, the lines of his waist and the delicate dips of his collarbones. The muss to his hair. 

Abruptly, Greg isn’t tired. “I’m gonna suck you off,” he says through numb lips. “Good?”

Mycroft’s eyes widen a little. “Now?”

“Now.” Greg drops to his knees and opens the finely made trousers but doesn't take them all the way down. He lets his fingers fiddle at the wool while he nuzzles at the front of Mycroft’s briefs. “Just so you know - I’m still annoyed with the grumpy boy routine.” 

“Sorry,” Mycroft says breathlessly. He’s hardening under Greg’s lips already. “I don’t mean to.” 

“I know.” Greg strokes gently, soothingly at the backs of his thighs. “And it’s alright. You’re allowed to get in a snit once in awhile. God knows you’ve been expected to sit still and keep your mouth shut enough. You don’t have to do it with me.” Mycroft’s hands spasm at his sides, and Greg can hear his breath catch. “I would’ve killed to see the rest of that suit. Just saying. You look like sex on a stick in these trousers. You sure it’s your brain you’re selling?” 

Mycroft barks a surprised laugh.  _ “Excuse me,”  _ he protests. 

Greg grins against the sweet soft skin of his lower belly, and peels his underwear down. “Just saying,” he murmurs, not bothering to tease, just taking Mycroft’s velvet smooth cock in hand and rubbing the exposed head over his lips. “Who says you have to even use your brain? Just be cute for a living. Certainly we can figure that out. I’ll bet my car that your trust fund alone is enough to live on.” 

“Not—” Mycroft gasps at the first stroke of Greg’s tongue. “Not to mention the inheritance and the houses.”

Greg chuckles. “Right, so. Be a man of leisure. Make me your kept man. Your kept Daddy? Hmm, interesting.”

Mycroft shakes with laughter and then dissolves into soft moans as Greg works him over with his hand and mouth. 

“I think I like that idea, actually,” Greg says when he pops off for air. “Don’t you?”

_ “Yes,” _ Mycroft sighs. 

Greg hums and takes him back in, wriggling his tongue just the way Mycroft likes, pressed flat against the underside, then sucking, a little blissful himself. He does relish this. It’s not that he actively thought about missing sucking cock when he was married, but… yeah, he did miss it. And now he’s addicted again, obsessed with Mycroft’s taste and the things he likes, happy to do it all day long, really. He’s getting it down to a science. He could tip this over into sloppy right now, start making the most obscene noises he can manage. Mycroft  _ loves _ that. Mycroft falls apart at the slightest suggestion of wantonness. All it would take is a little more spit, a little strategic gagging, and he’d have him coming in no time. 

Greg drags it out just a little, though, letting his hands feel over the soft trousers beginning to slip further down Mycroft’s legs, the rough smattering of hair over his thighs and the silky insides of them. He pulls off again and sits back on his heels, knowing what he looks like, knowing Mycroft loves that too. Mycroft’s hand goes to Greg’s hair just as predicted, carding through sweetly. Greg tips his head and kisses his wrist. 

“Come down my throat,” Greg says. “Then come to bed.” 

Mycroft nods, pretty blue eyes gone dark. “Yes,” he says. “Okay, yes.”

Greg gags himself on Mycroft’s cock and lets his eyelids flutter a little more theatrically than he might normally, and it’s a matter of a few messy sucks before Mycroft is shouting and coming, fingers tightening just a little in Greg’s hair. 

  
  


***

  
  


It’s usually not so dramatic, though. Greg gets texts at work sometimes, variations on a theme of  _ I’m coming over tonight.  _ Sometimes it’s  _ I’m already here, hurry home.  _

It’s the second variety on a day when Greg has reached the point of clawing at himself in frustration, fingers digging into his scalp, running nervous and frustrated through his hair. Dimmock’s fucked up royally, and now a body just turned up in a skip in Hounslow is a third victim in a string of murders - the third in London, that is. Dimmock failed to follow up with the D.I. in Croydon who’s been dealing with similar incidents for months. It’s drug-related, which has been obvious from the start, and now it’s becoming clearer that London isn’t the epicenter. Dimmock’s team has been chasing bad leads for weeks. 

Greg could shake him. Greg would  _ never _ have pulled a stunt like this,  _ so _ sure he knows it all that a simple phone call seemed like a waste of time. He’s  _ sure _ he wouldn’t have done it. He’s already torn Dimmock several new arseholes, and given his Sergeants a reaming out for it, too.  _ Multiple _ people failed to perform basic investigative work, and Greg’s the one herding every single last one of these recalcitrant cats who call themselves police, so he’s failed too. 

He’s tired. His back hurts. He’s been feeling a little peaky all day, maybe coming down with a cold. And he hates this desk and this office. He hates his Super and the traffic in the morning and three hour meetings. He feels like the personification of a storm cloud when his phone dings. 

He’s surprised to see that it’s late - after seven already. Greg’s lost track of time. When he swallows, his throat is scratchy and a bit raw. 

**MH(7:24pm):** Your flat was a mess. I have remedied that. You owe me two orgasms for that, at least. Maybe three, since I cleaned the fridge as well. 

Greg smiles and winces all at once. Shit. He presses the button to ring Mycroft’s number. 

“Maybe  _ four,” _ Mycroft says, all cheeky teasing on the other end of the line. “Those takeaway containers were from  _ two weeks ago.”  _

“Sorry,” Greg says, and winces again at the way his voice sounds. Gruff and old and a bit dodgy. “You’re a prince for taking care of it. You didn’t have to.” 

There’s an extra beat of silence. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

Greg clears his throat, trying to get his voice back to normal. “No,” he says. Then, “I don’t know, maybe? Listen, sweetheart, I’m gonna be  _ terrible _ company tonight. This day… This  _ week.” _

It’s quiet again, and Greg wonders if Mycroft’s still there until he hears a nervous little sound. He can picture the face, the motions that go with it. A stuttery breath, lick of the lips, eyebrows pinching together. Mycroft says, “Do you not want me here? I’m— Sorry, I can go.” 

“Baby, no, I always want you there.” Greg rubs at his gritty eyes. His face feels hot. Feverish. “I just don’t want you wasting your night with a grouchy old man with a head cold.”

Mycroft scoffs. “Well too bad, because that’s what I plan to do.” He clears his throat fussily. “Get out of that office and into your car and come home. I’ll take care of everything.” 

And he hangs up. He hangs up on Greg’s baffled face. 

Greg stares down at the files spread across the desk, and doesn't spare them another thought before he gets the hell out of there. 

  
  


***

  
  


At home, the lamps are on, but none of the brighter overheads. There is quiet music drifting from the speaker in the kitchen - piano, so it’s playing from Mycroft’s phone - and everything is exponentially neater than it was when Greg stumbled out the door this morning. As he’s locking the door, he hears Mycroft calling from the kitchen. 

“Shower,” he instructs. “I put your comfortable clothes on the back of the toilet. Fresh towel by the tub.” 

“What are you—” Greg takes a step toward the kitchen. He should help. He knows Mycroft probably skipped lunch. What are they going to do for dinner, it needs to be something with actual nutritional value and caloric content, he should— 

_ “Shower,” _ Mycroft says firmly before Greg can so much as take a second step. 

He sighs. “Yes, sir,” he says drily, and then takes himself into the bathroom. 

His favorite flannel bottoms and faded Arsenal t-shirt are there with a fresh pair of boxers and thick socks. A glass of water and the bottle of paracetamol sit on the shelf next to his shaving kit. Greg stands there for a moment, suddenly close to tears. It shocks him, and he swallows hard, wincing at the scratch. He takes the paracetamol and scrubs at his face with his hands.    


When was the last time anyone— 

Years. A lot of years. And before that… certainly never his father, and his mum only when she felt she could get away with it, without seeming like she was mollycoddling him. 

He doesn't know what he’s been thinking these last weeks. He supposes it’s pretty obvious now that he assumed he would be the one doing things like this. He guesses he must have let himself think he would never need caring for. Stupid of him. He’s twenty-seven years older than Mycroft, and probably just on the edge of  _ really _ starting to fall apart. He’s not invincible -  _ far _ from it. He winces at the thought of his popping knees and achy back and the eye strain he gets for forgetting to wear his readers. 

If he starts thinking about all that though, he’ll lie on the floor of the shower and never get up. So, he gets in, turns the water on hot, and stands there til his neck and shoulders don’t feel made of stone. 

Once he’s washed, he gets dry and dressed and brushes the taste of stale tea off his teeth before deciding not to bother with shaving. 

Out in the flat, the musc’s off.    


“Mycroft?”

“Lounge.” 

Greg turns, goes there on socked feet - a good call, he feels chilly all of a sudden and the socks help - and finds one lamp lit plus a candle. There’s a bowl of soup and a plate of pita bread on the coffee table, plus a huge glass of orange juice and another of water. Mycroft shifts his weight a little nervously, fingers twisting together. 

“It’s eucalyptus,” he says nonsensically. “The candle, that is.”

Greg blinks. “It’s… what?”   


“I don’t know, the woman at the shops said it would help if you felt congested.” 

Greg’s heart melts and slides down into his belly, he swears. “Oh,” he says. “That’s… you went to the shops?”

Mycroft nods. “I can’t cook to save my life,” he says. “You needed soup. It’s avgolemono from the Greek restaurant near the park, remember we walked past it last week? Anyway, my Uncle loves Greece, loved Greek  _ boys  _ really, I don’t know, I try not to think about it. My point is, he swears by that soup for anything that ails you, so I thought I would walk down to get it for you after we spoke, and then I thought, well, what else would help a head cold, and the woman at Waitrose said the candle might. She also recommended a great many cold remedies, so…” Mycroft clears his throat. “Erm… so I got a few things for that. As well. Juice and garlic and um, things. Medicine. Also there are dolmas and moussaka and taramasalata if you want something more substantial with the soup.” 

Greg blinks. “Mycroft, that’s… thank you, love, I…” God, his eyes burn. “You’re going to eat too, right?”

Mycroft nods. “In a bit. Sit down. On the floor. There’s a pillow.” 

Greg does it, even as he’s protesting. “We can sit at the table, you know, I don’t need to—” 

“Sh,” Mycroft hisses, quick and forceful. “Sit.” 

Greg sits, and reaches for the juice. It feels heavenly and cold going down. The sunshiney taste is miles better than the garbage tea and vending machine crisps he had today, and he realizes as he drinks that everything really has tasted awful until this. He sighs as he sets the glass down. “Oh, god,” he says. “That’s helping already.” 

“Good,” Mycroft says, and slides behind him, sitting on the soda with one long leg on either side of Greg, bracketing him. “Eat,” he orders. “I can see the knots in your shoulders from here. Astronauts in outer space can see them. That office manager owes you a bloody  _ massage chair, _ forget something on a swivel.” 

Greg groans at the first gentle squeeze of hands on his trapezius. He’d taught this to Mycroft, not even a week ago. Mycroft had just lifted his head from the puddle he’d become on the floor under Greg’s massaging hands, and said “I need to know how to do that for you.” And so Greg had shown him, having Mycroft press his thumbs to Greg’s palms to get the motion right, and then enjoying the ensuing practice back rub. 

“Do you want to talk about work?” 

Mycroft’s voice is close to his ear, and Greg tilts toward it. “No,” he says, and closes his eyes when Mycroft’s lips press sweetly to his temple. The newness of that loving gesture clicks some pieces together in Greg’s head and he sighs heavily at the slow realization of where his horrible mood started. “It’s just… just not great. And I— I saw Bette the other day.” 

Mycroft hums against him and presses him gently toward his soup. “Eat,” he prompts. “You saw her when you drove Gemma home from dance class?”

“Yeah.” Greg takes a bite of soup and groans. “Fuck, this is great.” 

“I’m glad you like it.” Mycroft’s fingers knead gently, not digging hard into the knots yet. “Did you speak with her?”

“Yeah,” Greg says. He eats, running over the interaction in his head before he figures out how to explain it. “It wasn’t anything, really, but she’s… she just assumes I’m miserable.”

Mycroft snorts. 

“Exactly,” Greg mutters. “Mentions the boyfriend - excuse me,  _ fiancé -  _ and then asks me how’s  _ work.”  _ He takes a bite of soup and lets it soothe his hackles back down. “It’s the way she says it. It’s so  _ pointed. _ And I said work’s fine, and I don’t know what possessed me but I said I was seeing someone.”

Mycroft’s hands go still on Greg’s back. “You did?”

“Yes,” Greg sighs. “I mean, I didn’t get into details, because she’ll run with it and write her own narrative and I’d rather tell my sister about you myself, thank you very much, but I just said I was seeing someone because it got my back up that she assumed I wasn’t. And then it was the ‘who is she’ and the ‘actually it’s a he’ and then she…  _ rolled her bloody eyes.” _

“Bitch,” Mycroft seethes behind him. “She’s a homophobe?”

“Biphobe,” Greg mutters darkly. “Thinks it’s not a real thing. I was unaware of that until we were well into our separation. She kept it to herself all that time, but as soon as the question came up of who got to keep the ugly lamp we bought at some awful flea market, she got nasty and called me  _ indecisive _ and  _ flaky.  _ It was complete nonsense, of course, which makes it even worse. It was like she’d saved that up for later, nevermind that I’ve never been flaky in my life.”  __

“Well, I hate her,” Mycroft says casually, resuming the gentle, circling press of his thumb on Greg’s shoulder blade.

Greg chuckles and eats his soup. “Thanks,” he says. “That actually helps. I dunno, she didn’t say anything. Just sort of did things with her face that translate to, you know.  _ Okay, sure, if you say so.”  _

“Set a bad tone for the rest of your week, hm?” 

“Yeah, and I shouldn’t have let it. It really doesn't matter what she thinks. I genuinely  _ don’t care. _ But it’s been stressful at work, and I didn’t really  _ notice  _ this cold til today but it must’ve been starting a few days ago.” Greg leans back into Mycroft’s hands and tips his head so he can see him upside-down. “Just so you know, the fact that you were here waiting for me improved my mood times a thousand. A hundred thousand.” 

Mycroft’s lips press against his forehead. “You’re warm,” he murmurs. 

“Don’t kiss me on the mouth,” Greg sighs. “You’ll catch it.” 

“Strange that you think I care about that,” Mycroft admonishes. “Eat your bloody soup. We can watch a sappy film. It’ll make you feel even better.” 

“I mention Julia Roberts  _ one time.”  _

Mycroft chuckles and squeezes him with his calves. “Eat your soup or I won’t eat mine when I’m done with this massage.” 

Greg does as he’s told and commits to the bowl of soup. By the time he’s almost finished, Mycroft’s fingers have switched to a gentle, tickling swirl that sends pleasant goosebumps down Greg’s arms. He continues those motions on Greg’s neck and cheeks when he leans back into his lap after his last bite. Greg lets his eyes drift closed, just happy to be exactly where he is. 

“Greg?” 

“Baby.” 

“Are you really going to tell your sister about me?” 

Greg smiles. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “I think it’s almost time.” 

Mycroft leans into his back and hugs him with his arms draped over his shoulders from behind. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't make (or panic-buy) soup for all of you, but this is the same-ish.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest I feel like I've strained a dirty talk muscle on this one.

**MH(5:13pm):** I’m downstairs. 

**GL(5:14pm):** At home? I’m still at work, love, but home soon. Just let yourself in as usual. 

**MH(5:14pm):** Not at home, at work. I’m outside your building. I’m here to take you on a date. Hurry along. 

Mycroft sees Greg exit the building before Greg sees him. Even at the end of a long day which itself comes at the end of a long week, with his five o’clock shadow and creases in his suit, hair mussed from running a hand through it doing annual reviews (he hates judging people), he’s devastating. Mycroft is still shocked that this is really happening to him. 

Greg looks left, then right, and his eyes catch on Mycroft immediately, and for his troubles Mycroft is gifted the most fantastic, gorgeous grin. 

“What are you up to?” Greg asks when he gets to him, hands shoved in his pockets. 

_ I hate every person on this pavement,  _ Mycroft thinks.  _ Go away, all of you.  _

If they weren’t right in front of Greg’s place of work, people he’s in charge of filtering in and out of the building, they’d have kissed before anything else. But Greg isn’t out to all of them, and it wouldn’t do to spill the beans by kissing Mycroft, who looks, Greg has wincingly informed him, ‘ _ way too young, yes I know, I know, but it’s true, you’re just so—’  _ Anyway, it would blow things up quite spectacularly. 

“Dinner and a movie,” Mycroft says. “And I’m paying, because I’m inviting you.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Well then we won’t go.” Mycroft grins beatifically. “I’ll go home. Uncle Rudy is in a mood and a half, I was rather hoping to escape the melodious tones of Gloria Gaynor tonight. You know, he was quite the disco enthusiast in his day.” 

“Well, who wasn’t?”    


Mycroft rolls his eyes. “You were not around for  _ disco, _ don’t start.” 

Greg just smiles. “Alright, I wasn’t, I was still in nursery school. But no, you can’t pay for me. Ever. I’ll pay. You decide where we go.” 

Mycroft narrows his eyes. “Why can’t I pay?”

Greg bites the corner of his lower lip. “Can’t tell you here. Wait here while I bring the car around?”

Mycroft nods, already a little breathless about the glint in Greg’s eyes. 

It’s a matter of minutes before Greg pulls up to the curb, and Mycroft climbs in eagerly. 

“Alright,” he says. “Explain yourself.” 

“In a minute,” Greg says a little tightly, and pulls away into traffic. 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him but doesn't protest. 

They drive a few blocks this way and that until they’re on a quiet street with a lucky parking space. 

“I can’t say this to you anywhere  _ near _ my place of work,” Greg says, throwing the car in park. “Because I can’t stand around in front of a bunch of Yarders with an obvious erection. But you’re not paying, because that’s my job and not yours, the end.” 

_ “That _ gave you a raging erection?”

“No,” he replies, and leans across the car, a hand coming out to grip Mycroft by the front of his jumper to yank him into a hard kiss. “You little brat,” he growls into the next one. “You don’t need me for much, just let me buy you dinner and a movie ticket. You can decide our every move, but I’ll take care of it. That’s what makes me happy.” 

“I need you for nearly everything good in my life, don’t be like that,” Mycroft protests, then laughs into the next kiss when all he gets in response is a low rumble. “God, alright, alright,  _ you can pay.”  _

Greg nips his lower lip, and then his chin. “Bloody right I can. Because why?” 

“Because that’s your job.” 

“And why is that.”

Mycroft’s body floods with warmth. He nuzzles in close, pecks at Greg’s lips. “Because I’m yours, Daddy, yes, I know.” 

“And that’s why I couldn’t do this at work.” 

“I could give you a hand with that, of course.” 

Greg sucks in a breath.  _ “No.  _ I’m not getting nicked for indecent exposure. Fuck, but that’s tempting.” 

“You know you want me to bring you off in this car. You  _ love _ this car.”

“Shut. Up,” Greg says, but it’s fond and melts into a laugh. “And tell me where to drive us.” 

Mycroft kisses him hard with both hands clenched in his lapels. “Head toward Canary Wharf,” he says. “I’ll navigate.”

Greg keeps a hand on his thigh any time he isn’t shifting gears, and he hands Mycroft the cord to play music through his phone. They are instantly in a lovely bubble, the same lovely bubble they seem to always be in. Mycroft kisses him at stoplights, and pretends to reach for him with a cheeky, naughty hand, creeping it up the inside of his thigh and walking his fingers closer, closer, closer, and then laughing madly when it’s batted away. 

“You’re right,” Mycroft sighs. “I’ll jerk you off in the theater. In the dark. Much better.” 

Greg turns to him, aghast, and Mycroft somehow manages to swallow his hysterical giggles and simply wink at him. 

“You’re in so much trouble later,” Greg growls. 

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

  
  


***

  
  


Later, after a long dinner and a decent-enough film followed by ice cream that they taste on each other’s lips instead of trading spoons, Mycroft gets his comeuppance. 

_ “Oh, please,”  _ he moans into the pile of pillows, quite useful for hiding his face. He tries desperately to get his knees out from under him so he can press flat to the mattress and rub against it for some relief.  _ “Please,  _ let me.” 

Greg squeezes his arse cheeks and laughs low in his chest. He goes back in with his tongue, lavishing Mycroft’s exposed hole with yet more licks and wriggling invasions, thumbs slipping down to press behind his balls.    


“You have to—” Mycroft breaks off to whimper as a finger - just one - slides into him, easily now that he’s been worked over for what feels like _years,_ and it’s not enough. It is not anywhere in the vicinity of enough, and Greg fucking knows it. Mycroft hasn’t thrown an actual fit _during_ sex before, but he might start tonight. 

“I don’t have to do anything,” Greg murmurs, fucking the single finger in and out lazily. “I’m going to take good care of you, and you know that, so I’m not sure why you’re wasting time trying to boss me about. It’s not happening. Be patient.”

Mycroft sobs into the pillows, because he really does know it, and he  _ wants _ to give up. He  _ badly  _ wants to stop rocking his hips and begging, because he knows when he does is when he’ll be given what he wants. He knows it, but he’s actually a very strange sort of masochist, so he’s being stubborn. 

Also, he wanted to buy dinner and two tickets to the cinema, and Greg  _ pulled the Daddy card on him.  _ He can’t let that go. He’ll stretch this out as long as he can, and enjoy the edge of frustration while he does. 

“I just—” He whines when the finger withdraws and Greg’s tongue stripes over him again. “I just want—” 

“Shhh…”

Mycroft bites down hard on his tongue and curls his arms tightly around a pillow. 

“That’s it,” Greg murmurs. Two fingers slide in this time. 

Mycroft stays quiet, refusing to allow himself to thrash and insist that it still isn’t enough.  _ Greg knows.  _

“That’s it, baby,” Greg continues, low and hot. “Give it up to me, let Daddy take care of it. Trust me.” 

Mycroft shudders and bites harder. He will  _ not _ say it. He will  _ not _ let it spill out:  _ Yes, Daddy, anything you want, I’ll be good, see, I’m being good—  _

It feels horrible and fantastic all at once. Story of Mycroft’s life, really. Everything he likes is at least a little not-good. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Greg sighs. “I wish you wouldn’t be so stubborn.” 

Mycroft smiles in the hidden space of his arms and the pillow, refusing to show that either, though he knows he’s not subtle; knows this is all a game and they each know what the other is doing. He makes a show of pressing up onto his elbows and rolling his hips back onto those two fingers.

And then - a surprise. 

A hand comes down on his arse, low on the outside of the left cheek. It’s not hard - it only stings a little. But Mycroft nearly swallows his tongue. 

“Hold. Still.” Greg twists his fingers. “Stop. Fighting me.” 

Mycroft is a snapped bowstring. He goes limp in a curl of lost tension. There is no more acting. That had been—  _ that had been— _

“Baby?” Greg leans forward, half-draped over Mycroft’s back. “That wasn’t too much was it?”

Mycroft shakes his head weakly. “N-no.”

“Oh?” Greg undrapes himself and runs a hand over the cheek he’d smacked so surprisingly. “Did you like that, sweet boy?” 

“Mmhm.”

“You weren’t meant to.” There’s a smile in his voice. “You naughty, filthy thing. Are you ready to be good for me?”

Mycroft doesn't answer. If he says yes, this oddly electric moment will be over. 

Greg rubs at his arse again, and scissors the fingers still inside. “Hmm. Do we need another? Will that get you there?” 

Mycroft breathes raggedly and doesn't speak. 

“Alright, then.” 

Greg’s hand comes down, higher up, on the fleshiest part of him, and a little harder. It  _ stings _ , but it also— it makes Mycroft whine into the crook of his elbow and rock back without meaning to this time.    


“Oh, love, just—” Greg smacks him again, hand practically bouncing off him, and then curls his hand around Mycroft’s hip, bringing him back against his fingers with a tug. “Come on, babe, say it.”

_ “No.” _

“Say it…”

Mycroft shakes his head, heaving. 

“Say it or I  _ won’t _ spank this pretty soft arse again.” 

A tremor runs through him, and he tries to go down flat to the mattress again only to have his hips hauled back up. 

“Mycroft.”

“Hnngh—” 

“You’re being greedy now.” It’s said smugly, because he knows Mycroft’s done. He drapes himself over his back again, his cock pressing hot at the back of Mycroft’s thigh. His lips drag up the side of Mycroft’s face, along his jaw to his ear. “Say it,” he murmurs softly. “Let me take care of you. Say it, and I’ll fuck you and fill you up like we both know you want.” 

Mycroft is smiling when he gives in, grinding back on Greg’s fingers.  _ “Daddy.” _

“There it is.”

_ “Daddy. Please.”  _

The lube is lost somewhere in the sheets, but in no time it’s found, and an obscene glob is squeezed directly down the cleft of Mycroft’s arse, dripping down around his Daddy’s thick fingers, which are already withdrawing to gather it and press it in. He hears Greg slicking himself, then feels the blunt press as the fingers are taken away and immediately replaced. 

“Tell me who I am.”

Mycroft whimpers. 

“Mycroft. Tell me.”

“My Daddy.” 

“Yeah.” The head of his cock pops in with a shove. “It was naughty of you to play like this. To make me wait like this. You’re a good boy, and you know better.”

Mycroft giggles and moans all at once. “Oh, my god.”

Greg plasters himself to Mycroft’s back and slides home. God, Mycroft’s glad they do this bare now. “Are you laughing?”

“It’s just—” Mycroft hiccups. “It’s so good and so ridiculous.”

“Oh?” Greg ruts into him. “Why are you being like this, hm? We both know you want it. We both know you need me. You need me so bad, sweetheart.” 

“So fuck me til I can’t breathe, already,” Mycroft demands, trying futilely to buck against him. “Come  _ on.”  _

He’s shoved off his elbows and down into the pillows, arse in the air and head held down, and then he’s smacked, hard, on the right arsecheek in time with a rough thrust in. 

Mycroft cries out.  _ “Daddy!”  _

“Such a spoiled brat,” Greg growls, fucking him hard and steady already. His hands are tight around Mycroft’s hips, hauling him back to meet each thrust with a slap of skin on skin. “I love it. I love giving you everything you want. I only make you beg because you’re so bloody pretty when you do.” 

“Spank me again,  _ please,”  _ Mycroft moans without artifice. “I love it, I love it so much.”

A hand stings him obligingly, and Mycroft sobs into the pillows. “That’s it.” Another smack. “Oh, baby, you should see how red you are. Jesus  _ Christ _ you’re so pretty. Get that lovely arse moving, push back against me, come on. I’m gonna come so deep in you. You’ll feel it in your  _ throat.” _

Mycroft squeezes overwhelmed tears out of his eyes and shoves back. “Oh my god,” he wheezes out. “Oh, please.” 

“Gonna make you come all over yourself while I finger it deeper inside. That what you want?”

_ “Yes!” _

“Who the fuck do you belong to?”

Mycroft could be swallowed by that gruff voice and live in it for the rest of his life. He loves when it gets like this between them.  _ Loves _ it. 

_ “You.” _

“And who takes care of you?”

Mycroft is going to  _ combust.  _ “You do, you do, always—” 

“And are you going to be naughty like this again?”

“Oh,” Mycroft groans.  _ “Yes.” _

Daddy laughs and comes, a stuttering, jerking breakdown of rhythm followed by a shoved-deep shudder. “Fuck,” he chokes. “Fuck, fuck,  _ oh.”  _

Mycroft doesn't still the wriggle and roll of his own hips, imagining that he’s milking every last drop out, that it’s filling him to the brim. He does it until he’s held firmly still while Daddy pulls out. 

“Turn over,” he gasps, and Mycroft does, anticipation knocking what’s left of his air out of him. His Daddy’s face doesn't disappoint. His eyes burn, and he takes in Mycroft’s sweaty brow and heaving, splotchy chest, his splayed thighs and, Mycroft is sure, his reddened hole already dripping. “Goddamn it. Spread them some more.”

Mycroft complies and gasps when two fingers shove right into him and a rough hand closes roughly around his cock. His jaw drops, but the sound he means to make is choked silent. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” Daddy rasps. “The things you make me say and do, I’m going to  _ die.”  _

Mycroft laughs. “If you do,” he pants, “take me with you.”

“Fucking—” 

Daddy falls forward and kisses him deep and sloppy, strips his cock ruthlessly, and twists his fingers with an obscene squelch. 

Mycroft’s orgasm slams out of him, and he shoots  _ everywhere,  _ splattering them both with it. He thinks he must scream, or at least shout very loudly. It’s swallowed down in a kiss, caught by teeth and tongue. 

By the time it finishes zinging through him, Mycroft is empty again, in so many ways, but his arms are full of broad shoulders. 

“I’m not kidding,” Greg pants against his cheek. “I swear I thought my soul was leaving my body this time. You have  _ got _ to tone it down, have mercy on me.”

“Absolutely not,” Mycroft sighs. 

His favorite thing, he thinks, is how just like that, they can be laughing like idiots. 

  
  


***

  
  


One of the few things Mycroft likes about his Uncle’s townhouse in Belgravia is the first-level bay window with the bench that is perfect for sitting and reading, or sitting and thinking, or sitting and deducing the people walking by - which Sherlock had taught Mycroft to do. 

“You really haven’t heard from him?” Mycroft checks, eyes unfocused on the pavement below the window.

“You aren’t prone to asking a question twice,” Uncle Rudy creaks from his seat by the fire. It’s early autumn, and not particularly cold, but there is always a fire burning these days. 

Mycroft is down to shirtsleeves and bare feet, his top two buttons undone, because to him it’s sweltering, but he would never complain. His Uncle seems to get colder and colder as the months go on. 

“I worry,” Mycroft says vaguely. 

“I know, boy, and it is a testament to your kind heart that you still do.” Uncle Rudy makes the grumbling back-of-the-mouth noise he makes when he is preparing to say something unpleasant. “Eventually, Mycroft, I won’t be able to track your brother at all. I will be gone.” 

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. 

“What then?”

“I don’t know.” 

Uncle Rudy does not start in on the pathways to influence and resources that Mycroft could take. Pathways that would ensure Mycroft could at least  _ try _ to keep tabs on his errant older brother. He wouldn’t bring it up now, not when they are directly discussing Sherlock. Uncle Rudy only  _ implies _ that Mycroft will need to emulate him in order to prevent his brother’s untimely death in some London gutter or other. He never says it outright. That way, Mycroft can never accuse him of the manipulation. 

Mycroft shoots his Uncle a look over his shoulder. Rudy considers him over his old fashioned half-moon reading glasses, and smirks. Mycroft smirks back and rolls his eyes. 

They both know the truth, and they both know that while Mycroft is furious with him, that’s simply the way things are. 

“It is what it is,” Rudy mutters. 

“Mm.”

“Your young man will be here soon,” Rudy says. “Are you planning to invite him inside for inspection? Or will he hover on the pavement again? Park down the block? Silver BMW, isn’t it? A 2013 3-Series, if I recall correctly. The footage was a little grainy.”

Mycroft swallows. “I… Wasn’t intending to lie to you.”

“As if it matters to me,” Rudy chuckles. “You are allowed your secrets. I  _ encourage _ them. You’re a rather good actor; it has been interesting to watch. But I wouldn’t be opposed to meeting the person with whom you spend virtually all of your free time doing what I am sure are scandalous and terribly athletic things. Judging by the beard burn—” 

_ “Cease fire,”  _ Mycroft whimpers from behind his hands. “I’m already dead.” 

Rudy wheezes a wicked laugh. Mycroft can remember being small and that laugh echoing up from dinner parties over the clink of silver and the chatter of voices. “Let me live vicariously, Mycroft, I’m  _ ancient.”  _

Mycroft shakes his head and stands from the window bench with a stretch. He crosses to the armchair across from his Uncle’s and drops down into it in a sprawl. “The thing is, he isn’t my young man.” 

“No?” Rudy sets the book he hasn’t pretended to read for at least fifteen minutes aside and removes his readers with a shaky hand. “Fold these for me, I’ll snap an arm off.” 

Mycroft takes them and folds them carefully before setting them atop the discarded book. He averts his eyes from Rudy’s assessing gaze. They have the same eyes, everyone has always said, as does Mycroft’s mother. Inherited, according to them, from Mycroft’s great-grandfather Vernet. Mycroft doesn't know that he’ll ever master the piercing laser focus that Uncle Rudy and, sometimes, his mother have honed. 

“What do you mean by that?” Rudy prompts when the pause has gone on too long. 

“Why do I get the distinct feeling that you already know?”

Rudy smirks at him again. 

Mycroft squirms. “He’s older,” he spits out. “Alright? And it’s  _ fine.” _

“Well, I’m sure it is.” Rudy flicks his fingers dismissively. “How much older?”

“A lot.” 

“Older than your mother?”

_ “God,  _ no.” 

“Alright.”

This is an interrogation technique. This is the same method that had Mycroft dissolving into tears and admitting that yes, he  _ was  _ the one to spill Ribena on the hundred year old Persian rug in the Blue Room. Rudy’s calm demeanor and soft voice implying that everything was fine, even  _ if  _ Mycroft has been terribly thoughtless. The nice thing is, everything always  _ was  _ fine. Uncle Rudy has never once in Mycroft’s life shouted at him or frightened him into obedience. 

He has other ways of getting obedience, and despite the fact that Mycroft has been learning those ways at his Uncle’s knee for his entire life, he still can’t manage to out maneuver them. 

“He’s forty-six,” Mycroft says, cracking like an egg. “He’s a Chief Inspector with the Met. He’s. Very nice. Not - er. I approached him, it’s nothing - nothing  _ untoward.”  _ He groans and covers his face with his hands. “Stop me, please.”

Rudy snorts. “You’ll need some training in withstanding interrogation, that is for certain.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and lets the implication of that slide. 

“Mycroft, it’s  _ fine.”  _ Rudy clasps his hands together. “Age is the least of one’s concern, I think, when it comes to choosing a partner. I myself had incredibly satisfying relations with—” 

“Uncle Rudy,  _ please.” _

Another wicked, wheezy laugh. “Invite him in, Mycroft. Let me get a look at him, that’s all.” 

Mycroft winces and reaches into his pocket for his mobile with a sigh. “Fine, fine. You’ll torture me about it if I don’t.” 

“Quite right.” Rudy nods firmly. “And when you finish sending your text, go and fetch us drinks. I’d like to do this with a vodka gimlet in my hand.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“Wow,” Greg says later, when they’ve escaped to his car.  _ “Wow.” _

“I cannot believe,” Mycroft says, shell shocked, “that my ninety-three year old great uncle just told you, in so many words, ‘ _ nice arse,’  _ and you  _ thanked him.”  _

“I don’t know what i was  _ supposed  _ to do!” Greg turns to him with wide eyes. “He’s a bit scary, isn’t he! Perfectly nice, but also—” 

“He knows legilimency,” Mycroft agrees. “I swear to you I thought to myself reading those books - oh, wait,  _ are wizards real?  _ Because he has  _ always  _ been like that. He can read minds.” 

Greg chuckles and scrubs his hands over his face. “He obviously adores you, though.”

Mycroft hums. “Yes, he does. It’s mutual.”

“I could see that.” Greg leans across the car and presses a sweet peck to Mycroft’s lips. “Thank you for the introduction. That was… that was big. I’m honored.”

Mycroft holds him by the back of the neck, not allowing him to pull away, and takes a longer press of mouths, warm and soft. “Wait til he insists you come for Sunday tea,” he murmurs. “Then you’ll be sorry.”

Greg grins. “I look forward to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hey Ya voice* Alright Alright Alright Alright Alright Alright Alright Alright Alright Alright  
> THIS CHAPTER. IS A BIT ANGSTY. BUT! 
> 
> Fear not - this is a double update. I will not leave y'all without your daily hit of the good feels. So just click on through to the next chapter, because everything is going to be alright.

Greg had expected this to go differently. He says as much. 

His sister levels him with a stone cold stare. “I don’t see how you expected this to go  _ well.”’ _

“Laura, you have to let me exp—”

“No, I don’t,” she hisses. “I do  _ not _ need you to explain why you think it is in any way appropriate for you to be— to be  _ involved with _ a  _ child.  _ A boy who is two years older than your eldest  _ niece!” _

Greg winces and swallows, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “You think I haven’t thought about that?”

“Jesus Christ, Greg,” Laura cries. “Is that supposed to make me feel  _ better?” _

“Look,” Greg says, struggling to keep his voice even. “Look. I was sitting in a bar, and I wasn’t looking for anything. I wasn’t there to meet anyone. I was watching the match and having a pint and that was  _ it.  _ And then this… this—” he nearly says  _ kid.  _ “This bloke’s giving me the eye and I’m having a little five second fantasy about it when— when his friend shows up out of nowhere to tell me to buy him a drink.”

“A five second fantasy.” 

Greg rolls his eyes. “I’m not  _ dead,  _ Laura, even if I thought it would never happen,  _ yeah _ it was fun to think hey, wow, maybe I’ve still got it after all. Maybe I could pull a younger guy. Wouldn’t that be  _ fun. _ Everyone does that, and you can’t tell me you never have.”

“Fine,” she snaps. “And then? Most of us don’t  _ act on it.”  _

“I  _ didn’t!” _

“Oh, so a teenager’s just been tripping and falling on your prick over and over, by accident, for what? Two months?”

“Three.”

“For  _ fucksake, _ Greg.” Laura pushes away from the kitchen island with a scrape of the barstool legs. She goes for his fridge. “There had better be wine in here.”

“There is,” he mutters, then winces again at her exclamation. 

“Why do you have a fifty pound botttle of Chardonnay in here?”

“Well.” Greg sighs. “Laura, please sit down.”

She makes a noisy show of opening and pouring a glass from one of the bottles Mycroft had brought over weeks ago, then stomps back over to sit beside him. “You’re never going to convince me that you haven’t lost your mind.”

“Well, Loops, I hate to break it to you, but it doesn't matter if I convince you or not. It won’t change anything.” Greg sighs. He knows it’s a dirty move to drop the childhood nickname, but he desperately needs to soften her up. “Look, he’s… I don’t know how to describe what he’s like. When he walked up to me at the pub I thought— I thought, oh, I’ll humor this cute kid, get my ego stroked, and that’ll be that. But he’s  _ smart,  _ Laura. I mean  _ genius. _ He’s nearly finished with a double master’s program at UCL. I mean. He’s been half on his own since he was fourteen, and for the last couple of years he’s been caring for his aging uncle. I’m not— I wouldn’t be interested in a  _ child,  _ and you know it. He just. Impressed me. He could read me, like, my entire life story, at a glance. It was shocking, and disarming, and I just— You know, I thought, when I brought him back here—” 

_ “Christ.” _

Greg pleads with a look and she subsides. “I thought well, guess we’re doing this. And I thought I was going crazy, maybe. I thought I might regret it in the morning. I think I was already formulating my excuses in the back of my head. It was a moment of weakness, I was just so lonely, I wanted to feel young again. But I didn’t regret it. I— I love him. I did from the start, and it’s… I don’t know, Laura, I don’t know what it is but it’s so  _ good,  _ he’s so  _ amazing.”  _ Greg sniffs and looks away, trying not to go over all pathetically weepy in front of her. “So that’s it, I guess. That’s all I can say, and just hope you understand, or decide to try and understand. He’s really young, but he isn’t a kid. He does need me, but not for the things you’d expect from an age difference like ours. He’s wealthy.  _ Really _ wealthy. And connected. He doesn't rely on me, except in the ways he  _ wants  _ to. And god help me, Laura, I want to give him everything. So.”

Laura stares at him, her wine glass held a fraction of an inch from her mouth, frozen. Greg meets her gaze and tries not to look too terrified of what she’s going to say next. She drinks and drinks and drains the glass. “Fuck, that’s amazing wine,” she pants, wiping her mouth. 

“He brought it over.” 

Laura shakes her head. “Greg, I don’t know.” 

“I guess I understand that.” 

“I think you’re missing a piece of this picture,” she says. “So he doesn't rely on you. So you aren’t taking advantage. So he’s not young at heart. So he’s smart as a whip. Sounds great. Sounds like you could keep it a bit quiet for a while til the number is a little higher, a little less shocking, maybe, and people might judge you less harshly. And by you I mean  _ you,  _ Greg, not the two of you.”

It’s a neat summary of things Greg has thought himself. In a few years Mycroft will be established in his career and his age won’t end in -teen any longer. Greg knows the age difference will always raise eyebrows, but he’s thought about how it would work, if he wanted to limit it to that and not invite accusations of predatory behavior or the like. 

“But what you aren’t mentioning,” Laura says, “is what it means for  _ him _ to be with someone so much older. Someone established and experienced. What happens, Greg, when he gets work opportunities that could take him away from you? Will he say yes? What happens if your knee finally gives out and you have to get it replaced and need caring for? He’ll do it. What will he miss for that? What if you stay together? He’ll be in his forties and you’ll be in your seventies. God, would  _ you _ want to be tied to someone that much older than you right now? What appeals about that situation, huh? Have you thought of  _ any _ of this?”

Some of it, yes. But some of it… 

“I didn’t— the work thing didn’t even occur to me, fuck,” he sighs. “He— He’s hell bent on working in civil service like his uncle, which honestly he doesn't  _ want _ to do, and I’ve been telling him - encouraging him - to consider other things that might make him happy. But if he does what’s expected he’d still be based here, wouldn’t he? And other things might… I mean, you’re right, they’d probably be… he could go anywhere. Be anything.”

“You gonna uproot yourself? Quit your nearly thirty year career and follow a twenty year old around the world?” 

Greg doesn't know. It had never— 

“You must remember what it was like.” Laura throws up her hands. “The things we  _ both _ did at that age, thinking the people we were making our choices for were the be-all-end-all.” 

Greg nods, numb.

“You’re not a selfish person, Greg,” she says. “Not usually.” 

She’s right. He’s not. And now that she’s come and put a spotlight on all of this… his better nature is going to take it from here. And he knows it. And it devastates him to think it. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft knows immediately that something is wrong. Greg can see it, the flash of concern and then realization, the smooth blankness that covers it up. 

“I hope you aren’t about to say ‘I think we should talk,’ because that would be terribly cliché.” Mycroft moves past him stiffly, making his way to the kitchen. 

“Why don’t we go into the lounge?”

“I’m not going in there so you can be  _ comfortable  _ when you tell me you’re finished with me.” 

Greg hurries after him into the kitchen and catches him round the elbow. “I’m not going to tell you that,” he says, desperate to get Mycroft to look at him. “Hey.”

Mycroft turns toward him, but his eyes stay fixed on a wall over Greg’s shoulder. 

“Baby—” 

_ “Don’t _ call me that right now.” Mycroft steps out of Greg’s hold. “Also I’m getting a glass of wine for this.”

Greg watches helplessly as Mycroft opens the fridge and notices the opened bottle of Chardonnay with a glass’ worth missing. 

“So your sister came over,” he states, plucking the bottle out and getting a wine glass from the cabinet. “I see.” 

“No, you don’t,” Greg says, trying his best to sound patient and calm. “You don’t see. Yes, Laura came here, and yes, she reacted poorly when I told her, but that’s not— I’m not breaking up with you because my sister said I’m too old for you.”

“Then why are you breaking up with me?”

“I’m  _ not.”  _

Mycroft turns with a very full glass in hand. “Then what is this, because you certainly give off every indication that you are about to do just that.” 

“Will you at least sit down?”

“No.” 

Okay, so it’s going to be like that. Greg sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mycroft, what would you do if you were offered a job in… I dunno. Let’s say Canada. Would you take it?”   
  


Mycroft's nose wrinkles. “Why would I do that? I have no reason to want to move to Canada, and besides, you aren’t there.” 

“Well, that’s sort of what I’m getting at.” Greg has to clench a fist to keep himself from bailing on this entire conversation. “Laura pointed out to me that I haven’t been very fair in thinking about the reasons people would think we shouldn’t— the ways you and I would be… problematic.” 

_ “Problematic?”  _ Mycroft rears back, like he’s disgusted, and sets his wine glass - half empty now - down with a hard  _ clink.  _

“Yes, love, problematic. You know, we’ve talked about it, people are gonna think all sorts of things, and I even worried for a while that I couldn’t be any good to you. And you know why.” He takes a step forward, leaning his weight on his hands against the kitchen island. “But it was wrong of me not to consider how  _ you _ might miss out. Because of me.”

“I’m not going to miss out on anything because of you,” says Mycroft flatly. “That you could possibly think that I would do anything I don’t want to do after months—” 

“You don’t want to work for SIS,” Greg blurts, then bites his tongue hard.  _ Fuck.  _ Not the best thing to say in the moment. 

Mycroft stills. “You don’t know that,” he says. 

“Come on, sweetheart, yeah I do.” Greg sighs. “But you’ll do it. Maybe. And if you do it, it’ll be for other people. It won’t be because it’s what you want. You are capable of being pressured and having your hand forced. You  _ do _ think of what’s expected or wanted of you. You can’t pretend you don’t - everyone does. But you are  _ nineteen years old.  _ Making decisions now based on me would be completely unfair to you. It’s important that we talk about that. It’s important that you understand that I don’t want you doing that. I don’t want you deciding where to work or live or what to do with your life based on the fact that I’m almost fifty, couldn’t go with you just anywhere, and— and based on my selfishness, my wanting you all to myself. My wanting you to choose things not only because they make you happy, but because they make you more available to me.” 

Mycroft picks up his wine and drains it, much as Laura had done in this very room the other day. 

“What you are describing,” he says at length, “is literally the definition of a committed relationship.  _ Everyone  _ makes decisions that way. I know I’m not like  _ everyone.  _ God forbid, you know, that I should ever get to  _ pretend  _ that I am. But I should be allowed this.” Mycroft’s voice cracks. “Shouldn’t I?”   


“You’re nineteen.”

“Oh, fuck you and your— you didn’t care that I’m nineteen four nights ago when you bent me over the arm of the sofa and—” 

“I’m not trying to have this argument!” Greg smacks a hand on the island. “Mycroft, I’m not saying you can’t make decisions like everyone else  _ or _ because of your age, but I’m saying it might be better if you could make them based on  _ you,  _ entirely on  _ you,  _ and your needs and your plans.” 

“Well you should have thought of that before you brought me home from the pub and within twenty-four hours told me you loved me.” Mycroft goes to the fridge and removes the bottle of Pinot Grigio stashed there. “This is mine,” he says. “I’m taking it with me.” He moves around the kitchen island, bypassing Greg for the kitchen doorway. 

Greg, stunned, rounds on him. “You’re  _ leaving?”  _

“You broke up with me!” Mycroft stands framed in the doorway, wine bottle clutched in a white-knuckle fist. He’s red high on his cheekbones. 

“I’m not  _ breaking up with you!  _ I just want to come to an understanding!”

Mycroft snorts. “Right, and another month or so from now I’ll be twenty and you will change your tune to ‘but you’re only _twenty’_ and it’ll go on and on and on forever, and you’ll never have to take me seriously, or _this_ seriously, because you can simply say ‘oh, Mycroft, you’re only _thirty,_ you couldn’t possibly want old, decrepit me.’ Nevermind the fact that you’re in excellent health save for your knees, and _devastatingly_ handsome. You’ll age like Harrison _bloody_ Ford! You doubt me, and that’s what this is about.”

Greg feels a bit like he’s been punched in the face and thrown down the stairs. “I don’t.” 

“And don’t think,” Mycroft says, his voice beginning to shake, the blank, angry mask falling away. “Don’t think I don’t know that what we do, what we are like together, has everything to do with it. You wouldn’t be half this concerned for me if I didn’t call you my  _ Daddy _ half the time.” 

“That is  _ not  _ true.” 

And the thing is, Greg is very sure that it isn’t. But this is Mycroft, who sees everything, and it makes him doubt himself, sick to his stomach. Is he judging this from that perspective? Does he think less of Mycroft’s ability to be autonomous because of it? He didn’t think so, but. 

“This is awful,” Mycroft mutters, rubbing at his eyes. “What you’re doing to me, this. Hurts. I’ve never— I didn’t know it would feel like this. I have to go.”

“Mycroft, please don’t.” Greg steps forward, hands held out with his fingers spread, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry, I should’ve done this differently. All I want is for you to be happy. All I want is to love you,  _ please  _ believe me.” 

Mycroft sniffs hard and lifts his head. His eyes are clear. They aren’t glassy with tears. But there is devastation there. “I do believe you,” he says. “I do. I even… I even appreciate what you’re trying to do. But. I’m very angry. I’m furious with you. And I’m not going to sit here and let you condescend to me.”

“Okay,” Greg breathes. “I understand. Please say you get that I’m not trying to end this.” 

“Yes I do ‘get’ that.” 

“And are you… are you going to end it? Because of this?”

Mycroft levels him with a glare.  _ “No.”  _

“When will I see you again?” 

Mycroft’s lips twist. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I need to go before I say something I’ll regret. I’ll talk to you later.  _ Don’t _ try to stop me, Greg. I’m going.” 

Greg nods. “Yeah,” he says through dry, numb lips. “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry.” 

And Mycroft just shakes his head, a wrenching little sound audible from his chest as he turns away. “I love you too,” he chokes, and then he’s out of the kitchen and Greg is frozen in place. 

He stands there like an idiot and listens to the door slam. 

  
  


***

  
  


He waits three miserable days before he sends a text. 

**GL(8:17am):** Are you alright?

He doesn't hear back all day, and claws through his work day with a sinking stone in his stomach. 

**MH(9:02pm):** Why wouldn’t I be?   


Greg’s half-on and half-off the sofa, a beer bottle dangling from his free hand, his phone held up over his face in the dark. He squints in the glow and wants to time travel to the day before Laura came over. Start this over. Not ruin everything. 

**GL(9:11pm):** Will you come over? If not tonight, maybe tomorrow? It’s Saturday, I can treat you to fancy breakfast. 

**MH(9:12pm):** No, thank you. 

Greg squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't know what else to say. He falls asleep on the sofa and wakes up at dawn to no new messages. 

And it goes on like that for three weeks. No Mycroft in his flat. No Mycroft in his car. No Mycroft’s voice in his ear on the phone. There are texts, and Greg isn’t proud of how desperate he gets as the days wear on. 

**GL(3:11am):** I can’t sleep, I miss you so much. 

**MH(7:36am):** You slept fine before me. 

**GL(7:57am):** Now you’re being cruel. 

**GL(4:43pm):** You said I would see you again. 

**MH(6:12pm):** I didn’t, actually. You want me to make choices without considering you and that is what I’m doing. I’m working. I’ve been working every night this week. I’m taking a sabbatical from my studies in order to work more. Satisfied?

**GL(6:18pm):** A sabbatical? But you’re nearly done with your degrees, why???

**MH(6:30pm):** I have my reasons, and I am fine. Goodnight to you. 

**GL(12:12pm):** I called in sick today and bought a dozen tiny cakes and I hate this and I want you here to eat them with me. 

**MH(3:42pm):** Do you know that you are being manipulative? I told you I was angry with you, I expressed a need for space. What are you accomplishing with this?

Greg swallows and sets his phone face-down on his desk. Mycroft is right. Greg is acting like a lovesick teenager, actually, and the irony is not lost on him. He blinks down at his desk calendar and decides to give it a rest. 

He succeeds for another week, and then it’s a different afternoon - a Sunday, spent in the office - and he’s staring down at his desk calendar again. It’s the end of October. That means… He flips the page and blows out a breath, suddenly remembering the confirmation email sitting in his personal inbox, received only a day before he’d gone and screwed things up.

He picks up his mobile. 

**GL(11:16am):** Hey. I’m really sorry for pestering you. All I want to say is that I love you, and I hope you can forgive me for being very stupid and heavy handed. I didn’t mean to be. It’s your birthday in two weeks. I would really, really love to take you away and celebrate it. Nothing would make me happier. But if that wouldn’t make you happy, don’t reply. You don’t owe me a reply. 

**MH(11:19am):** Yes, that would be fine. I will meet you in front of my house at 5pm on the Friday. I am also free the following Monday, if necessary. 

Greg blinks. Christ. Less than five minutes. For weeks he’s spent entire days waiting to hear from Mycroft and this time… this time he gets this. It worked. He was right. He did the right thing. 

**GL(11:22am):** I’m so glad. I’ll see you then. I love you. 

He’s asleep when the next message comes in, and doesn't see it until the following morning. 

**MH(2:41am):** Thank you.

**MH(2:41am):** Daddy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurry! CLICK NEXT CHAPTER!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I GOTCHU

Mycroft buckles himself into the BMW while Greg is still loading the bags into the boot. 

Staring at the house, he can see the curtains twitch. He knows that Uncle Rudy is rolling his eyes from the bay window, and then hopefully being chivvied into his wheelchair by the home carer. (a junior agent, a promising one, with a squeaky clean record, a terrifyingly high clearance and training off the charts)

Mycroft rolls his eyes right back, knowing that if Uncle Rudy can’t see it, he knows it’s there. Mycroft will be as difficult as he pleases, thank you  _ very _ much. 

Greg joins him in the car after a moment and there is a long moment of frozen quiet. Mycroft keeps his eyes trained straight ahead, because if he keeps looking at the house, he’ll be looking at Greg, and he doesn't  _ want  _ to, even though he  _ really _ wants to. 

“You’re okay?” Greg checks, clicking his seatbelt on. “You’ve… um? Been alright?”

Mycroft sighs heavily. “I am fine.”

“I’m really glad you’re here. Glad we’re doing this. It’s a big birthday.” 

“Is it?” Mycroft digs out his mobile and pretends to have something to read on it. “Shall we? Where are we going?” 

He hears Greg’s smile. “Bath. It’s a bit of a drive, but I have a plan to stop for dinner halfway. Sound okay?”

Mycroft shrugs one shoulder. “Fine.”

This gets him an uncertain pause, and then a sad sigh. He swallows against a twinge of guilt - he isn’t required to be nice. He isn’t required to let it go so easily. In fact, he is fairly certain that this would not be happening if Greg didn’t feel that he owed it to Mycroft somehow. 

The car pulls away and into traffic. Mycroft bites the inside of his cheek and taps at his phone. 

“Gonna be a long few hours if you give me the silent treatment the entire time,” Greg says after fifteen minutes which Mycroft spends staring mutely at an interminable scroll of emails he doesn't care about. “Maybe you could tell me about the job you’re doing. Whatever you can, I mean.”

Mycroft’s first, knee-jerk instinct is to snap and haughtily inform him that actually, he  _ can’t _ tell him anything. But that’s not true. He can’t tell Greg the nature of it - the intelligence reports, the slow analysis of conflicting stories out of four different countries, and the endless false cordiality in the face of the liars who write the reports. But he can tell him other things, the things he knows will actually interest him, anyway, and which he knows will elicit sympathetic responses. 

Mycroft’s still angry, but he isn’t made of stone. He misses the voice of a person who is always on his side. 

So he tells Greg about the idiots he’s stuck working with, and how the youngest of the team, a passably decent analyst named Sebastian, seems to think he’s got something on Mycroft. How petty and small he is, but also how annoying. And Mycroft finds himself skirting the real issue, but hinting at it: it’s the same old schoolyard nastiness. It’s the one thing Mycroft will never avoid. Even at boarding school, even at Uni, sometimes  _ especially _ at Uni, Mycroft is different, and it’s easy to spot, no matter how he tries to hide it. People always notice something: his quickness, or the way deduction reads as omniscience, or the way overload reads as antisocial behavior. Sometimes, even, it’s simply his age. His connections are a problem (one can’t hide it when the bloody chief of the security services greets one by name and asks after one’s mother) as is his lack of a personal life. 

For a while there, before The Talk, Mycroft had reluctantly leaned into the truth of having someone waiting for him at the weekend. He had obliquely referred to Greg, implying that actually, Mycroft had Things To Do outside of work and courses and seminars and presenting for professors. It had been nice. Mycroft had seen the point of it, and relished it. 

It’s been hard since he finally acquiesced to his Uncle’s colleague’s wheedling, and requested the sabbatical. 

He hasn’t felt sure of this. He hasn’t felt comfortable telling stupid Sebastian and his twisted, mean smirk, that  _ actually,  _ he wasn’t ‘all work no play.’ 

He’d slipped back into his old ways which were exactly that. All work. He’d reminded himself that this was  _ fine. _

Lied to himself, really.

Because as Mycroft serves up a slightly altered version of events, detailing Sebastian’s nasty, clumsy antics, just the suggestion of protective tension in Greg’s shoulders sends a frisson of satisfaction through him. 

Greg scoffs. “I’m sure he has no idea who he’s dealing with,” he says. And he obviously means it. 

Mycroft loves him for it. Sebastian is the son of someone important, who is the son of someone important. Everyone from his Uncle to his mother to his drug-addicted brother would tell Mycroft: _Play the game._ _Your abilities aren’t everything. Ingratiate. Soothe. Smooth. Sweet-talk._

But not Greg. 

Greg is so sure of Mycroft. So incensed that anyone could ever be even slightly rude to him. 

Mycroft leaves off after a while, and pretends to fall asleep against the passenger window. 

And then he really does fall asleep, because he actually hasn’t eaten more than five square meals in as many days, and has slept abominably little. 

  
  


***

  
  


They’re parked, and Greg is easing Mycroft awake and out of the car. 

Mycroft forgets himself. 

“Daddy,” he mumbles, brain not quite fully online. He leans heavily into Greg’s chest beside the car. “So tired.”

“I’ve got you,” is pressed to the shell of his ear, and strong hands stroke over his back and help him come to full wakefulness - or something close to it. 

Mycroft blinks sleepily at Greg’s concerned face. 

“You look too thin,” Greg - Daddy, god, Mycroft’s exhausted brain is desperate for that comfort - says. 

Mycroft sways toward him even as annoyance flares in his chest. “I’m fine,” he insists, but he’s not alert enough to put the right heat in it. 

Luckily, by the time they enter the hotel lobby, Mycroft has his bearings again. 

“You were sleeping so peacefully,” Greg says. “I didn’t want to wake you for dinner. We can stop there on the way back home. We’ll get you room service for now.”

Mycroft makes a diffident little sound and casts his eyes over the hotel lobby while Greg checks them in. This is a  _ very _ nice hotel. He swallows. He can’t imagine what this is costing. Mycroft doesn't really know how much a place like this would cost, but he can guess how it measures up against a police salary - even a high ranking one. 

In the elevator, their bags sent ahead with a subtly attired, professionally unobtrusive attendant, Greg catches Mycroft’s eye. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Greg says firmly. “Not only are my savings quite healthy, but I have a friend who owed me a favor, works for the group that owns this hotel and got me a deal.”

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow. 

“I  _ know _ people,” Greg says with exaggerated defensiveness, then slips his arm around Mycroft’s waist, tugging him snug against his side. “I want you to relax. Let me feed you up and send you down to the spa for a massage, go for walks with me and let me spoil you half to death. Okay? Yes?”

Mycroft blinks against a sudden prickle. “Yes,” he forces himself to say. “Okay.”

He feels a spasm in Greg’s hand at his shoulder. 

Mycroft’s hurting him with the distant routine. He should stop doing it. 

He’s not sure he can. He feels cold and nasty, still, deep down. Like a creature that throws spikes when it’s frightened. He almost can’t help it. 

Almost. 

In the room, their bags are neatly placed beside the door, and Greg says something about freshening up since he came for Mycroft directly from work. 

Mycroft shrugs out of his coat and hangs it, then toes out of his shoes before falling face first into the bed with a sigh that feels like it comes up from his toes. 

He wants to skip ahead to the part where he’s made his point and everything is fine again. He flops onto his back and shoves himself up the length of the bed to sit up against the pillows. It’s an  _ extremely  _ lush bed, with an overabundance of pillows. Greg will be happy about that. Mycroft digs his mobile out of his pocket and stares at the home screen blankly. 

Greg exits the bathroom a moment later, cuffs unbuttoned and rolled to his elbows, a little sprinkle of water on his collar from when he splashed his face. Mycroft has to work hard to keep his eyes trained on the screen, thumb tapping at nothing. 

Greg stands at the end of the bed and crosses his arms. “I know what you’re doing,” he says with no preamble. “And it’s working. Because I feel awful. You’re terrifying me with this act, making me wonder if I ruined everything. You know, because wanting the best for you is such a bloody crime.”

Mycroft snorts and taps on the camera icon. He surreptitiously snaps a photo of Greg standing there at the end of what looks like miles of white bedding from this angle, with Mycroft’s outstretched leg visible in the shot. 

“Mycroft,” Greg sighs. “I’m worried.” His arms drop to his sides. 

Mycroft takes another photo, then flicks his eyes up to Greg’s over the edge of the phone. “Don’t be worried,” he says quietly. 

“Don’t—” Greg places a knee on the bed. “Don’t be a  _ brat,” _ he says, a hand curling around Mycroft’s ankle, creeping up his pants leg, slipping fingers under the edge of his sock and pulling it off. “Stop doing this. You’re cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

“Don’t parent me,” Mycroft says coolly.

Greg has his ankle again, fingers tracing over the bone. “Don’t act like you don’t love that.” 

Mycroft narrows his eyes and takes a picture without looking at the screen. 

Greg’s hand goes tight, and he yanks, which Mycroft realizes he’s about to do just in time to stifle the surprised squeak he nearly makes. He slides down the bed, laid flat. Greg’s hands slide up Mycroft’s legs and urge them apart. Mycroft bends them at the knee, twin A-shapes, and lets them fall open enough for Greg to get another knee onto the mattress and move between them.    


Mycroft stops trying to hide it, and lifts his mobile, snapping a photo of the tanned, broad hands on his own skinny knees, and then one of the face looking down on him. 

“What are you doing?” Greg asks softly. 

“Taking photos.” 

“Hm.” Greg traces his fingertips over Mycroft’s kneecaps through the fabric of his trousers. “Give me your phone.”

Mycroft does it, the first obedient thing he’s done tonight. Greg holds it, and with his other hand reaches up to unfasten Mycroft’s top three buttons. He lifts the phone and smiles at whatever he sees on the screen. Takes a picture with the tap of a finger. 

“Do the rest of the buttons yourself,” he instructs. 

Mycroft takes a slow, deep breath, and tells himself he can do this without giving away how badly he wants to. He has to work, though, to keep his expression neutral as he skips fingers down the line of buttons and opens the sides. He hadn’t worn a vest under, and his skin prickles in the air. 

Greg takes a picture. 

“Touch your chest for me,” he says. 

Mycroft does not allow his breathing to hitch. He trails a hand up his belly to his breastbone, and then to the side to brush his fingers over one nipple. He bites the inside of his lip and hopes Greg can’t tell. 

Another picture, and Greg’s free hand slides from his knee and down the length of Mycroft’s thigh, landing over the hard line of his cock and squeezing. He takes another picture while Mycroft is sucking air into his lungs in one quick inhale. 

“You’re gonna be good for me,” Greg says. “Eventually. Like this, but better. Like you want to be.”

Mycroft blinks up at him, knowing he’s lost the thread and that he doesn't have a handle on his expressions any longer. He’s beginning not to care. He wants to be touched so badly, and he wants to be good so badly, and he wants to move past this  _ so badly.  _

Greg, who is just on the edge, and Mycroft thinks he knows it, of being Daddy (at least in Mycroft’s mind, he will bite his tongue and  _ not say it) _ , squeezes his cock and rubs the heel of his hand over it just once, root to tip. Mycroft tilts his hips into it and almost allows his eyes to flutter shut. 

“But first,” Greg says, taking his hand away, “You’re going to bloody well eat some dinner.” 

Mycroft chokes on his shock, eyes going wide, a flush hot on his cheeks. 

Greg smiles, and snaps a photo. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft eats. And eats. And eats. 

“I’m going to need rolling out of here,” he complains when he finally convinces Greg to take the tray away. “You’ve rendered me useless, you realize. I’m  _ immobilized. _ ”

Greg comes back from placing the tray outside the door, and climbs onto the bed beside him, one hand resting over Mycroft’s belly and the other carding into his hair. “You look like someone who’s barely eaten in days,” he says. “You are more than welcome to pass out now. No judgment.”

Mycroft bites his lip and considers Greg’s gentle face. “You’re not angry with me?” 

“For?”

“The cold shoulder? My… demeanor?” 

Greg kisses first the tip of his chin, and then the end of his nose. “I may have deserved them.” 

Mycroft shimmies closer, leans into Greg’s hand in his hair and covers the one on his stomach with his own. “You didn’t,” he admits. “Not really. Not that I think I shouldn’t have been angry with you, because I was - I  _ am -  _ but I don’t actually  _ want _ to be cross with you.” 

“You wanna talk about it now?” 

Mycroft shrugs as much as one can when one is laid out flat on a bed that is swallowing one whole. “When else?” 

“I only have the one thing to say,” Greg says. “So it’ll be quick, unless you’ve prepared a speech.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, though he does have probably  _ hours _ worth of things to say. He has no plan to say all of them. “Go on,” he prompts. 

“It’s just more of what I said in my text, is all. I won’t ever do that to you again,” Greg says. “That’s all. I’m sorry. I meant the spirit of the thing, but I did it all wrong and made you feel like a kid and scared you into thinking I wanted to break up. I don’t ever want to do it again.” 

Mycroft closes his eyes and takes that on board. “Alright,” he says. He laces his fingers through Greg’s. “Thank you.” He decides, in that moment, to be… fair. To compromise. “I suppose I’ll only say one thing, too, and be done with it.” He blinks his eyes open and searches Greg’s face, sees nothing but softness. As always. Just for Mycroft. Mycroft takes a shuddering breath. “I promise you, that I won’t put you in the position of having to wonder if I should have done something, but didn’t, because I’m with you.” 

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if I  _ really _ want to do something, I promise you I will do it. I’ll talk to you, obviously, but I… I’ll make the right choices. I won’t let you worry that I resent you. But you have to swear you won’t question me if and when I make the choice to stay. Because I swear to god, if you—” 

Greg cuts him off with his lips, the hand in Mycroft’s hair moving to cup his jaw. He kisses him sweetly and almost chastely. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I promise, baby. Thank you. Thank you for that.” 

And Mycroft can’t help it. He laughs. It’s  _ not _ a pretty laugh, it sputters out of him and knocks his teeth against Greg’s chin and probably makes him look red and ridiculous. “Jesus,” he giggles. “Good  _ god. _ So dramatic just to say we’ll have a perfectly normal sort of relationship.  _ Pathetic.”  _

Greg snorts and rolls his eyes. “Stop it,” he mutters. “Brat.” Then, grin growing, he noses along Mycroft’s throat. “Besides… I still wouldn’t call us  _ normal.”  _

Mycroft feigns a shudder. “Thank god for that,” he says, and then melts into a groan as teeth close gently over his earlobe. 

“Swimming rule,” Greg rumbles in his ear. “At  _ least _ thirty minutes’ wait after a meal.” 

“Oh, I can’t stand you,” Mycroft snaps, then softens it with a kiss. “Fine,” he murmurs. “Thirty minutes and then I need— I just want you.” 

“Done.”

Naturally, Mycroft passes out five minutes later. 

  
  


***

He wakes and the gentle glow of the bedside clock informs him that it’s just after four in the morning. There is an arm around his waist and a pair of warm lips pressed to his shoulder. He’d apparently been wrestled out of his unbuttoned shirt while he slept, and he realizes a moment later that he’s also been relieved of his trousers. A leg is slipped between his own. 

Mycroft shivers and presses back into the curl of Greg’s body. He isn’t actually cold, but he feels the need to be more covered than he is. He’s tempted to wake Greg and ask him to squeeze him as tight as he can manage. 

He settles for tangling their feet together. 

  
  


***

  
  


_ “Baby…” _

Something tickles. 

_ “Wake up, sweet boy.”  _

Something feels  _ good.  _

_ “Come on, love, I’m dying for breakfast and then I plan on bringing you right back to this bed.”  _

Mycroft’s eyes open. It’s more of a prying-open. “Room service,” he rasps. 

“Yeah? Don’t want to go down to the restaurant?” 

“Not…” Mycroft clears his throat. “Not now. Do the thing with your fingers again.”

There’s a low chuckle behind him, and then gentle fingertips tickling softly up the length of Mycroft’s arm, across the tops of his shoulders, then up the back of his neck and into his hair. 

Mycroft shudders.  _ “Mmm…” _

“You know, it’s after eleven,” Greg says, repeating the motion but in reverse. “I’ve never seen you sleep so late. What have you been doing with yourself?” 

Though he hates to dislodge him, Mycroft turns onto his back to squint gritty eyes up at Greg’s concerned face. “Terrible things,” he says. “I’ve been miserable.” 

“Yeah,” Greg says, like he had been there to see it. “We’ll fix it. Let’s get into that swimming pool of a bathtub, huh? I’ll order us up coffee and sweet things and we can have breakfast there.” 

Mycroft lets his eyes drift closed. Greg’s fingers have taken up their sweet movements again, across Mycroft’s collarbones this time. “Decadent.” 

“Mmhmm.” Greg leans in and presses a dry kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “Then I’ll bring you back here, and take you apart. Piece…” a kiss to his jaw, “by piece.” 

“I’m more in need of a putting back together, to be honest.” 

“I can see that.” Greg noses along his throat. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.” 

Mycroft is surprised when he’s gathered up into a hug, hauled into a seated position and then into Greg’s lap. “Oh!” 

“Gonna carry you in there.” 

“Don’t!” Mycroft laughs as they stand from the bed, and clings with his legs. “Ah! Tile! Tile! Hard tile!” 

“I’ve never dropped you before,” Greg points out. “I won’t do it now.” He sets him on his feet beside the tub. “Strip.” 

All he has left are his pants. Mycroft raises an eyebrow and hooks his thumbs in the waistband. 

Greg sits on the edge of the huge soaking tub and watches as they’re peeled down. He nods approvingly. “Still gorgeous, I see.” 

“It’s only been a few weeks.”

“Too long.” Greg shrugs, and turns away to turn on the water. “Get in and let it fill up. I’m calling down and I’ll be right back.”

  
  


***

  
  


Greg won’t get into the tub until he has sat beside it feeding Mycroft bites of pastry until the plate is empty. He eats some himself, but Mycroft is not permitted to reciprocate. 

“Do you have a fetish for feeding me?”   


Greg laughs, getting out of his t-shirt and shorts. “No, I just love you and don’t want you to starve.” 

Mycroft licks his lips, watching the casual striptease. “Why do you?”

“Why do I not want you to starve?” 

“Why do you… what makes you love me? What… what do you mean by that?”

Greg makes a thoughtful sound as he steps into the tub and then sinks down into it across from him, folding Mycroft’s outstretched legs between his own. This tub is bigger than the one in Greg’s flat, which is saying something. They could probably both stretch out in it. Greg stays close, though, and rests his folded arms on top of his bent knees, his chin on top of the arms. 

“Do you doubt that I mean it?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I probably should, considering the… the short period of time between meeting and…”

Greg’s lips twist into a self-deprecating little smile. “Considering I was done for within a day and said so out loud while  _ inside you _ and you were begging me and calling me Daddy? Yeah, I mean, let’s count the red flags, shall we?”

Mycroft has nothing to say to that. He leans in and licks a droplet of water from Greg’s wrist, then kisses him there. 

“The thing is,” Greg says after a moment, “that I didn’t know what I meant at the time. I just…  _ felt _ it. And I said it because I was out of my mind and couldn’t stop myself. And the only reason I would’ve stopped myself is how crazy it was. Not because it wasn’t true.” 

“Hmmm,” Mycroft hums, rocking his lips back and forth over the wrist bone, and then dragging his mouth aimlessly along Greg’s forearm. 

“You have the most interesting oral fixation sometimes,” Greg murmurs, watching him. “Anyway, it’s been, what? Almost four months since we met? And now I know how sweet you are. How funny. And I know you love your uncle and worry about your brother. I love that. You don’t have to do that, Mycroft, you’re young - you could spend all your time thinking of nothing but yourself. But you don’t, because you’re loyal and you care. And I know you’re terribly wealthy but don’t care about money. I know that you feel obligated to do something meaningful with the beautiful mind you were born with. I hate that you’re so self sacrificing but I love the principles behind it. And you think you aren’t beautiful, even though you are, and that’s another thing I  _ don’t _ love - the way you undersell yourself. But I love how you blink when I tell you you’re gorgeous. I also love your obsession with Lord of the Rings, and your ability to recite Lady Bracknell’s lines from memory. I even love how you broke your arm when you were nine because you were climbing a tree to retrieve a remote control airplane for a boy you loved and the branch broke from under you. Your face when you told me that. You’re so… I dunno, baby, there’s a lot. There’s a lot I could say about why I love you in a really desperate and stupid way. I’ll do it all weekend if you want.” 

Mycroft had given up on the exploratory drag of lips about halfway through that, resting his forehead against Greg’s folded arms. He gasps for air, having had it knocked out of him by all… that. “Oh,” he manages to say. “Well. Thank you.” 

Greg’s wet hand rubs soothingly over the back of Mycroft’s head, smoothing down his hair. “Sorry for being nice to you.” 

Mycroft swallows a laugh that might decide to be a sob instead if he lets it out. “Will you please take me to bed?” 

“Let me wash your hair first.” Greg presses his lips to the top of Mycroft’s head. “And then yes. Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI - this fic is never going to have anything bad happen and be permanent. I wouldn't do that to you guys, or myself, or them But I mean... we need SOME stuff to happen to make all this sweet stuff all the sweeter. But this is a happy love story. Promise. Thanks for hanging in there <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just...porn. That's it. That's the chapter.

While Mycroft is showering before dinner that night, Greg has custody of his mobile, for purposes of reviewing what they had spent the day saving to its memory card. 

There are pictures from the night before, and Greg smirks at the candid snaps of his own worried face. The ones of Mycroft under him, tentative and then blissful and then shocked. 

The next thing in the camera roll is a video. Greg plays and unmutes it, and is hard in an  _ instant, _ which is completely unbelievable considering the  _ two orgasms  _ he managed between breakfast and now. So - he calculates in his head - ten hours. He hasn’t done that since he was in his twenties. But there’s no doubt as to why he’s rallying now. The video was taken fresh out of the bath, Mycroft’s wet hair curling over his forehead and on the white pillow beneath his head. Greg hears his own voice. 

_ “Touch your neck.”  _

Mycroft touches his neck, and the camera pans lovingly down to follow his hand, the trembling fingertips lingering in all the places Greg knows Mycroft loves to be kissed. 

_ “Did you touch yourself? When we were apart?” _

Mycroft’s Adam's apple bobs on the screen as he swallows and nods. 

_ “Like this?” _

_ “No.”  _ Mycroft’s voice is breathy.  _ “No, I— I just. Took care of myself as quickly as I could. I woke up hard. I woke up wanting. You.”  _

On the screen, Greg’s hand appears to trace alongside Mycroft’s, his fingers tripping and sliding over and between Mycroft’s.  _ “You could have had me anytime,”  _ his voice says, tinny from the speaker.  _ “Put this hand around your cock.”  _

Greg squirms on the sofa, adjusting himself in his trousers as he watches Mycroft do it. 

_ “Slow,” _ Greg tells him.  _ “Give me your other hand.”  _

Greg’s hand catches Mycroft’s on the video and guides it out of frame before the camera moves and captures only the juxtaposition of Mycroft’s slim fingers around his own hard prick, and those same lovely fingers on the other hand wrapped around Greg’s. 

_ “So pretty,”  _ Greg says. 

And though he knows what comes next, it still gets to him now. 

Mycroft’s hands move in unison with perfect synchronicity, and he says off-camera  _ “Daddy, you’re so big, I missed you so much, I want you inside. Please?” _

_ “You beg so well for me. Give me some more.” _

The camera moves slowly up, lingering on Mycroft’s trembling belly and fast-rising chest, up to his hooded eyes and bitten lips.  _ “Please fuck me,”  _ Mycroft says, eyes boring straight into the camera.  _ “Please, Daddy, I missed it so much. I need it. I  _ need _ it.”  _

The bathroom door clicks open and Greg looks up, not bothering to pretend he hasn’t been doing what he’s been doing. Mycroft pauses in the doorway. He’s got a towel around his hips and nothing else covering him. All down his torso are livid purple marks that Greg sucked into his soft, smooth skin while Mycroft kept begging. He’d stopped recording and dropped the phone to do it. 

“Do you know,” Greg murmurs darkly from his place across the room, “how fucking sexy you are?”

Mycroft drops the towel. Crosses the room. Straddles one of Greg’s knees and shoves his own right up against Greg’s burgeoning, third fucking ridiculous erection of the day. “Show me,” he says. 

Greg thumbs over to the next video and groans before he even presses play. Mycroft leans in, one arm hooked around Greg’s shoulders, their heads tipped close together so they can both see. 

It’s Mycroft’s long, elegant back, his perfect arse, and Greg’s cock splitting his cheeks and sinking into him nice and slow. Mycroft’s soft moans drift up from the phone speaker. 

“It felt like being slowly broken in half,” Mycroft murmurs, just as he says, onscreen:  _ “Oh, Daddy, yeah, yes,  _ yes,  _ so good.”  _ In the here and now, he smirks. “I’m rather shameless, aren’t I?”

Greg chuckles and leans up for a kiss, taking it in slow, languid slides of tongue. When they pull apart, their eyes are magnetically drawn back to the phone and the video. Greg’s fully seated now, and he remembers that tight, perfect heat. 

There is a suck mark visible at the top of Mycroft’s hip, curving around to his back. Greg had sucked there as he turned him over to open him up. Now, Greg’s fingers find it and press, and Mycroft moans, rocking down against Greg’s thigh. 

“Hang on,” Greg murmurs. “If you drip all over these trousers, I’ll have to wear the really nice ones i have for your birthday dinner tomorrow.” 

Mycroft huffs. “Ha! We’re doing that?”

“Fuck yes, we’re doing that.” Greg tips him off his lap to sprawl beside him on the sofa. He hands Mycroft the phone. “Hold this.” And then he shifts and bends over into Mycroft’s lap, swallowing him down to the back of his throat. 

Mycroft jerks and moans just as the Mycroft on the phone whimpers and says,  _ “Harder.”  _

_ “How much harder?”  _ Greg teases from the speakers. 

Greg rolls his eyes at himself, sucking hard and bobbing his head faster. 

_ “Hard enough to break me,”  _ Mycroft pants.  _ “Come on. Do it harder. Hard as you can. I’m so close.”  _

_ “Already? You little slag.”  _

Mycroft onscreen lets out a strangled moan, as Mycroft under Greg’s hands and mouth threads his fingers through Greg’s hair and groans, “Daddy.” 

The video cuts off soon after, because Greg had needed to put it down in order to really put his back into it. 

Greg curls his tongue around the head of Mycroft’s prick, swiping away precome. 

“You fucked me so hard,” Mycroft murmurs, fingers tightening in his hair. “And then again. And  _ again.  _ I’m so used up. I can’t get you off my skin. I can’t get you out of me.” 

Greg groans around his mouthful and adds his hand, twisting hard on the upstroke. 

“Fuck,” Mycroft whines. “Fuck— Fuck!” 

Greg can only make a strangled  _ Mmhmm  _ around Mycroft’s throbbing prick and dig the fingers of his free hand into Mycroft’s thigh. And then he’s swallowing down his…  _ third? Fourth?  _ Greg doesn't know. He’s amazed there’s still so much to swallow.    


When he’s finished, they’re both panting raggedly, Greg’s face pressed to Mycroft’s bare, twitching belly. 

“That was—” Greg blows out a breath. “Oh, honey, that was—” 

“That was only the second video,” Mycroft drawls, all liquid and satisfied. “We’re pathetic.”

Greg laughs into the sweet skin of his thigh and says, “Nah. We’re saving the rest up for later.”

Mycroft scoffs. “We’re _making_ _more_ later.”

And Greg doesn't make a joke about being too old for this, because he understands now how bad that is for them. And it isn’t true, anyway. He’s still throbbing in his trousers. He’ll have to sit here a minute and wait til he’s respectable enough to head down to the restaurant. But he knows when they get back he’ll be ready to go. He’d do anything Mycroft wanted. Even defy his own body’s limitations. 

He picks up his head and passes the taste in his mouth from him to Mycroft, moaning when his tongue is sucked dirtily. 

“Dinner?” Mycroft proposes when they break apart gasping. 

“Dinner,” Greg says. 

  
  


***

  
  


After dinner finds them right back in the big over-pillowed bed. Mycroft is doing his level best to give the longest, most indulgent blowjob anyone has ever given in all of history. Greg’s happy to enjoy it. He’s not coming anytime soon, not with two already under his belt, but he loves this. He loves the way Mycroft loses himself in it, playing absently with Greg’s foreskin, making drawn-out, sweet little sounds, and even  _ smiling _ with his mouth full. 

Greg pets him, murmurs stupid little things to him. He’s working up to something, though. He’s building up courage and trying to find the right words for the longest time, long enough for Mycroft to start getting sloppy and drooly on his cock. 

In the end, Greg decides it’s best to be blunt. 

“Baby?”

“Hmmm?”

Greg shifts nervously, and Mycroft holds his hips down with an arm across him like a bar. “You ever…” he thinks he knows the answer to this. “You ever been on top?”

Mycroft comes off Greg’s dick with pop. “What?”

“What I mean is, did you fuck your ex? Did he let you?”

Mycroft stares at him.  _ “What?” _

“No, then,” Greg sighs. “Y’wanna?”

“Wha—” 

“I’d love it,” Greg interrupts. “I’m asking because I like it, and I think you’ll like doing it. Giving it to me.” 

“Oh,” Mycroft says, like it’s punched out of him. “Oh, god.” 

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Greg says, because it is. 

“I do.”

“Yeah?”

Mycroft, wide eyed, sprawled between Greg’s legs, nods. “H-how… When? Now?”

“Yeah.” Greg squirms. “I’d say the edge has been taken off pretty much all day. It’s a great time for it. I’ve never been so relaxed in my life, and you won’t go off like a shot.”

“Excuse me—” 

“I’m not making fun.” Greg tugs Mycroft up, glad that there’s no resistance, and kisses him quick. “Believe me, there have been times I’m so keyed up by the time I get in you I swear to  _ god  _ I won’t make it.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t do that,” Greg teases. “You’re seriously underestimating the absolute magic of your arse.” 

Mycroft isn’t looking at him when he says, “I can’t believe you want me to…  _ really?” _

“Oi,” Greg nudges him. “What, you’ve been suffering through when I fuck you? It’s so lackluster you can’t imagine why I’d like it?”

Mycroft sits up. “That…  _ is _ a good point.” His gaze goes a little unfocused, and then speculative. “Where is the lube?”

  
  


***

  
  


An unknown amount of time passes. 

Greg hasn’t done this in decades. 

And he’s questioning all his choices. Because it’s. Fucking fantastic. 

Mycroft makes the most amazing sound as he pops past the tight rim of Greg’s entrance. It’s strangled, a little high in pitch, and shocked. 

“Oh, god.” 

Greg, laid out on his stomach, his cock still hard and trapped between his belly and the mattress, spreads his legs a little more. “It’s good,” he murmurs. “Keep going.”

“There’s no way I can,” Mycroft gasps. “It’s. Tight.”

Greg chuckles. “Slow, baby. Slow, slow. You’ll get there.”

And Mycroft sinks in slowly. Gets about halfway in and then rocks back out on instinct. 

_ “Yeah,”  _ Greg grunts on the firm rock back in. “Oh, baby, that was just right.”

Mycroft does it again and again. “Oh, it’s… I—” 

Greg pushes up onto his elbows and takes the next gentle thrust in. “More,” he murmurs. “Keep going. FIll me up, sweetheart.”

Mycroft’s hands spasm and his fingers dig painfully into Greg’s hips. “Oh fuck, please shut up.”

Greg laughs and sinks back down, pillows his head in his arms. “Sorry.” 

Mycroft just pushes in. Inch by inch. And stops when he’s seated. “Hnngh.”

Greg breathes, adjusting to the stretch, the familiar-unfamiliar feeling of invasion. Everything’s good and slick, and he had helped Mycroft finger him open, nice and relaxed. So it’s not painful, just… pressure. An overwhelming feeling of pride. Or possession. 

“Fuck me,” he breathes. “Mycroft, baby, come on.”

For this he gets a hard grind, the sinuous roll of Mycroft’s hips. It might have been easier for Greg to be on his knees, all offered up and open. Or on his back with his thighs held to his chest. But this, he likes. He had coached Mycroft through it, telling him where to position his knees, and how to find an angle that lets him slide home easily. 

“Baby, baby, baby,” Greg chants with every small, circling movement inside him. “So good, love you so much.” 

Mycroft finds a rhythm, a shallow in and out, never a full withdrawal. Every press back in complete and slow, and ending on a sexy, grinding roll. Eventually, Mycroft plasters himself over Greg’s back. Greg thinks:  _ Oh we can do a little better.  _ And asks Mycroft to budge up enough to let Greg lean onto his elbows again.    
  


“Hold me,” Greg breathes, and Mycroft - genius boy, fast learner - scoops his arms under him, holding him tightly from behind with his hands hooked over Greg’s shoulders. And he fucks like he rides Greg, sometimes, with a sort of abandon, rhythmless but blissful. His breath is hot against the back of Greg’s neck, his short nails digging into Greg’s shoulders. 

“D-daddy,” Mycroft murmurs against Greg’s neck. “So good…” 

Greg nearly bucks him off, his reaction is so intense. 

_ “Yeah,”  _ Greg prompts. 

“I’m— I want to come inside you.” 

“Do it, baby boy, I want that. I want it deep inside me. You’re so fucking good at this. So hot.” 

“Mmph—” Mycroft closes his teeth over Greg’s shoulder, a gentle bite. “How do you like it?”

“A little faster, maybe,” Greg murmurs, breathy. “But it’s good like this, sweetheart, so good.” 

Mycroft makes the sweetest sound into Greg’s neck. “How do you  _ do _ this, I’m barely—  _ oh.”  _

Greg laughs, a little breathless. “Practice,” he says, then gasps as Mycroft straightens, places hands at Greg’s hips again, holds him still and fucks into him just a little harder, a little less carefully.  _ “Okay, _ yeah, like that—” 

“Oh, god—” 

Greg pants into the space made by his folded arms, what might normally be a desperate need for friction on his cock only a passing thought, really, as every shuddering thrust nails repeatedly against his prostate. He’s barely getting a full breath now, and he feels vague and untethered, and  _ really _ proud in this moment. He’d say so, if he could do anything but cry out, wordless and shocked. 

Mycroft says, “I can’t— I’m sorry—” and curls over Greg’s back with a lovely little choked-off moan. “Daddy…”

Greg clenches around him. “Yeah, god, so good.” 

Mycroft shudders through it, hands tight on Greg’s skin. “I didn’t— mean to—” 

“Really, nothing to apologize for, that was—  _ is—  _ so good.” 

There’s still a gentle rocking, the tremble of Mycroft’s thighs around Greg’s. “Mmmph—” 

“Still hard.” Greg shakes his head against his arms. “You’re  _ still hard.” _

“Mmhmm—” 

“You fucking magical— Let me turn over.” 

Mycroft whines as he pulls out, and when Greg manages to drag himself over onto his back, it’s to find his boy’s bewildered, red-cheeked face blinking down at him. 

“Come on,” Greg murmurs, hauling him in by the back of the neck, already getting his own legs up and open. “Come on, love.”

Mycroft groans as he slides in again.  _ “Oh, fuck—  _ I don’t think I—” 

“Fuck me,” Greg orders, low in his ear. He can _ not _ believe this is happening, but he’s not going to stop himself. A man’s only able to come and then  _ keep going _ for a very narrow window in life, and he’s going to make damn sure Mycroft gets to experience it. He gets a hand around his own cock. “Come on. Give it to me, sweetheart.”

There are definitely overstimulated tears mixing with the sheen of sweat on Mycroft’s face, and he tucks it close to Greg’s as he rocks in, gets his hands under Greg’s knees. He makes the most heart wrenching little sounds. 

Greg strokes himself, harsh and desperate. “Harder,” he commands, and Mycroft does it, leans back and gets some leverage, fucks into him harder, holds him open more firmly. 

“You—” Mycroft gasps and shakes. “I can’t— I’m going to—” 

_ “Harder,”  _ Greg growls. 

Mycroft cries out and shoves forward, and  _ there it is.  _ Greg just hangs on, hand in Mycroft’s hair, other pulling himself off hard and fast, til he’s shaking, right on the edge of a  _ third orgasm,  _ which is less impressive next to what Mycroft managed today,  _ holy shit. _ Mycroft might shout the roof off the hotel when he comes again, but Greg wouldn’t know. His ears are nothing but rushing blood as he finally manages to shoot over his own belly, mouth hanging open against Mycroft’s cheek, fingers like claws in his hair. 

It’s been years since Greg came this many times in a day, and even longer since he did it with someone inside of him, and he doesn't know if he’s ever done it with someone he loves like this, so he gives himself a pass when he can’t quite breathe, can’t quite stop himself from leaking tears all over the place. Besides, Mycroft is too, so who cares. They’re terribly messy. 

It’s good. 

  
  


***

  
  


In the morning they take one look at each other and dissolve, Mycroft’s face buried in Greg’s chest, which shakes him with uncontrolled laughter. 

“I am so. Fucking. Sore,” Greg manages to say, with a groan for good measure as he tries to press his thighs together.  _ “Jesus.”  _

“I feel like I need a gallon of water.” Mycroft rubs his face against Greg’s chest hair. “Ugh and another  _ shower.  _ We’re both nothing but dried sweat.”

“Oh, there are other things in the mix,” Greg mutters, wincing at the stiff feeling in certain patches of skin. “Wow.”

“We’ve single-handedly used half this hotel’s hot water supply, swear to god.”

“Well it’s built on a hot spring, so.”

Mycroft giggles madly. “Ow, my  _ abdominals.  _ That’s why you have such a nice stomach. I had no idea those muscles got such a work out. You do that to me  _ all the time,  _ how do you manage?”

“Oh, it’s worth the pain,” Greg teases. “Also, after a while you get used to it and muscle memory does wonders. Less soreness the next day.” 

“I suppose that’s true the other way around,” Mycroft sighs. “I walk around bow-legged a lot less frequently these days. But at first - God.”

Greg squeezes him in his arms and kisses the top of his head and loves him  _ so much,  _ knocked breathless by it, and seriously considers not leaving the bed for the entire day, shower be damned. But… “It’s your birthday tomorrow.” 

“Mmm.” 

“So we’re going to start actually celebrating it today.” 

Mycroft lifts his head. “What? Then what was all the rest of this?” 

Greg grins. “Foreplay.”

“Oh my god,” Mycroft grumbles.  _ “Stop.” _

What Greg had originally planned to do was to leave the hotel to poke around Bath, maybe see some of the touristy historical stuff. Actually, he’d planned to do that the day before, assuming things would still be tense between them. He’d had vague hopes for Sunday to be a day for keeping to the bed. 

In the end, there’s no way they’re going out in public. Mycroft pouts at the slightest suggestion of it, and Greg can’t argue. He has no desire to go sitting on public transport, for one, with his arse still smarting and his thighs shaky as they are. And while the mental image of Mycroft set against a background of Roman baths is incredibly appealing, so is the one of Mycroft in a fluffy hotel robe eating a strawberry with one hand and holding a mimosa in the other. 

Greg watches him and regrets  _ none _ of his choices. 

Mycroft grins at him from his place sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Pardon me, dirty old man, stop staring and come get daytime drunk with me.” 

Greg takes the champagne glass from him and sets it aside before tackling him to the bed and digging his fingers into his side, growling into his throat about showing him  _ dirty old man. _

“Oh, please,” Mycroft manages amid the giggles, “neither one of us can manage it. We’ll rub something  _ raw.” _

And Greg agrees, so he subsides, and insists on acting as full-body pillow, on feeding him strawberries by hand, on kissing just for the sake of it, and then on a nap. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, for one, am doing great.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys - if you need to, give the little note at the bottom a look to check for some warnings before you get started. Nothing too major, but I want to make sure everyone's in their comfort zone!

Mycroft watches the clock tick over from 11:59 to 12:00, and just like that, he’s twenty. 

When it happens, a pair of gentle lips press against the nape of his neck. “Happy birthday, beautiful boy.”

Mycroft has to catch his breath. “Thank you, Daddy.” 

  
  


***

  
  


It’s ironic that only a week or so after what was arguably the best three days of Mycroft’s life, and _certainly_ his best birthday to date, things go somewhat to shit. 

Mycroft finds himself in a restaurant, regretting his choice to go to dinner before having this conversation. He stares across the table at Greg and wants to burst into uncharacteristic tears. He isn’t hungry, and Greg is making concerned Daddy eyes at his barely-touched plate. 

Mycroft sighs. “I have to talk to you about something,” he says. “And I don’t want to do it here, but I’m—” He blows out a breath. “It’s nothing… you didn’t do anything, and I didn’t do anything - yet - and it’s not... I’m doing this poorly.”

Greg sets down his wine glass. “Baby… it’s alright. Just tell me.” 

Gritting his teeth, Mycroft can’t bring himself to keep his eyes up. He casts them down to the table. “I have an offer. For training and for work. I would have to… leave. For a while.”

He hears Greg suck air in through his teeth and winces. “Hey, no, it’s— I just can’t believe this is _already_ coming up, but I should’ve expected it. Tell me more. And maybe look at me, because everything is fine.”

Mycroft drags his eyes up. “I’d be an idiot not to go. Careerwise this is… it can propel me significantly beyond even where my Uncle’s influence can place me.” 

“But?”

Deep breath. “But it’s in America. For at least six months. Possibly a year.” He swallows hard once it’s out, staring unblinking at Greg’s pained face. 

“Ouch,” Greg says, aiming for light and missing entirely. “Is it… you say training, but. Is it… safe?”

Mycroft carefully does not react. “I can’t tell you.” 

“Fuck,” Greg whispers to his own plate. “Oh, sweetheart…”

“I would eventually have done the same sort of training here. The same type of work. I can’t… I can’t just skip over this part.” Mycroft realizes he’s holding fistfuls of the table cloth and forces himself to stop. “But I could leverage this time away into… less of this part.” 

“A year,” Greg murmurs. “Oh, I hate that.” 

“I hate it,” Mycroft says. “I don’t want it enough to do it if you ask me not to. Just tell me not to do it and I won’t.” 

Greg’s expression goes helpless, his head tilting to the side. “I’m not going to do that,” he says. “I can’t do that.” 

Mycroft closes his burning eyes. “I should thank you for that.” 

“I wish I could be more selfish about it.” 

“So do I.” 

“But I kind of _am_ selfish about it. If you’re going to insist on this… this career? I want you out of the worst of it as soon as possible.”   
  


“Greg, I don’t know what else to do.” Mycroft rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to find the right way to say this. “I know you think that I could do anything I wanted but I don’t know what I want and I can’t… I can’t sit around wasting everything I’ve been given while I attempt to figure it out. It’s an insult to everyone who has helped and supported me.” Mycroft knows he sounds like he’s pleading, and he is. _Please understand, please don’t be angry at me for doing what I was raised to do. I don’t know how to be anything but this._

“When would you have to go?” Greg asks, sidestepping the direction this conversation could take. 

“Just after the new year.”

Greg rubs a hand over his mouth, then his jaw. “That’s a month.” 

“Six weeks,” Mycroft says, as if it helps. 

Greg’s smile is shaky. “Make the most of them?”

Mycroft nods. “And… and when I go? What will we…”

“We’ll do whatever you want, when you go. It’s always up to you.” Greg shrugs. “I’m gone on you, love, I’m not going anywhere.”

This nearly does Mycroft in. He has to glance toward the ceiling and draw a deep breath, filling his lungs to hold himself steady. Holding his breath until the wave of near-hysterics rolls back. “That doesn't seem fair to you,” he manages tightly. 

“If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.” Greg shakes his head. “I’m not going looking for anyone else. I wasn’t looking when I found you. I don’t… I don’t need to go looking just because you’re gone awhile. But sweetheart, a year isn’t a long time for me. It is for you.”

Mycroft sighs. “It could be much less than a year.”

“Well that would be great,” Greg says. “Still, I don’t… I don’t want you to feel tied down when you’re not even in the same timezone as me. I don’t want you to miss out on—” 

“I will throw this wine in your face,” Mycroft says coolly. He picks up his fork and shoves a defiant bite of cold pasta into his mouth, chewing with his eyes narrowed on Greg’s amused-sad face. “I’ve already told you, you aren’t a starter… person.” His eyes flick left and right to all the potential eavesdroppers. “I meant it. I—” 

“Fine,” Greg says with feigned easiness. “Fine, then. So we’re long distance for a while.” 

Mycroft eats and nods. “Finish your dinner,” he says. “I want dessert. We _need_ dessert.”

“Fuck the dinner,” Greg says. He motions for their server. “Let’s just skip ahead, shall we?”

And Mycroft thinks of how badly he wishes they could. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft is baffled by how easily Greg manages Sunday supper with Uncle Rudy. Standing behind him, Mycroft makes pointed eye contact with his Uncle. When he is met with absolutely no acknowledgement, and a smooth tilt of the head toward Greg, Mycroft’s eyes widen. _Oh god._

“You know,” Uncle Rudy says, hand steady around the stem of his wine glass today. “When I was your age, I had a younger man.”

Greg, to his credit, does not choke on the bite of roast he’d just placed in his mouth. As Mycroft sinks, defeated, into his own seat at the table, Greg chews carefully, swallows, takes a sip of water, and says, “Did you?”

Uncle Rudy grins broadly. “Well I say _a_ younger man, but there were a _few._ Not as young as this one.”

Mycroft places his elbows on the table and his hands over his eyes. “Oh, my god.” 

“Not much older, either,” Rudy continues. “I’ll admit to being a bit of a… playboy. Mycroft, elbows off the table.”

Greg smirks at him across the table, then turns back to Uncle Rudy. “What year was it, when you were my age?”

Rudy sighs dreamily. “Oh, the sixties. You can’t imagine, truly. Well, now that I think of it, you were likely born around then.”

Greg shrugs. “I was born in 1967.” 

“Poor thing.” Uncle Rudy shakes his head, making a show of cutting up his roast and then pausing, knife and fork in hand, appearing to think. “I always wonder if you kids got a raw deal. Coming up in the eighties, experiencing the prime of life in this shallow, technology-obsessed time. How _do_ you manage it?”

Greg shrugs again, an act of innocence and cluelessness. “I didn’t manage anything,” he says. “Mycroft had his little girlfriend hit on me for him.” 

“Traitor,” Mycroft hisses. 

“Oh, Mycroft,” Uncle Rudy drawls, sympathetic and despairing at once. 

Greg laughs. Uncle Rudy laughs. Mycroft glares at both of them. 

Then, Uncle Rudy makes his move. “I won’t have you attempting to sway him in his choices.”

_“Uncle Rudy—”_

“He’s young, but he is not stupid, nor is he helpless. He does not need you. I’m sure you’ve realized this.” 

Mycroft sputters. “I will leave and take him with me!” 

“If I think you’ve emotionally blackmailed this boy in any way, limited him in any way…” Uncle Rudy fiddles with his steak knife. “Well, I can’t actually aim anymore, but my nurse is a crack shot from what I’ve read in her file.”

Mycroft turns his head slowly, stomach sinking, to see how Greg is taking this absolute nonsense. He swallows his surprise. 

Greg is eating, as if nothing insane has just been said. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I would never try to tell him what to do. I haven’t. All I want him to do is whatever he wants. He doesn't listen. So.” Another shrug. 

“I’m sitting right here,” Mycroft murmurs, intending for it to come out snippier than it does. 

“Yes,” Uncle Rudy sighs. “We _know._ And what we are doing is telling you, by telling each other very pointedly in front of you, that you are on your own. You make the decisions, Mycroft. _You_ do. No one else.”

Mycroft swallows. “Yes, I know that.” 

Greg’s foot nudges his under the table. 

  
  


***

  
  


Upstairs in Mycroft’s suite of rooms - sitting room, bedroom, absurdly large bathroom - Greg shoves him down on the sofa and covers him like a blanket. 

“I thought we were coming up here to fool around,” Mycroft says, muffled by Greg’s shoulder.

“First this.” Greg shifts, settling more comfortably on top of him. “I want to amend what your uncle just said.”

“Oh, please,” Mycroft begs. “I don’t want to have this conversation any longer than I already have.”

“You aren’t on your own.” Greg kisses his cheek “Okay?”

And Mycroft sighs, closes his eyes, and wriggles his arms free to wrap them around him. “I know that,” he whispers. “But thank you.” 

“I love you.” 

Mycroft smiles. “I know you do. I love you. I’ll miss you so much I’ll probably pine and waste away.” 

Greg just kisses him, and the conversation is over. 

“Ever snuck a boy in here?” He asks, leaning up to glance around the dark, heavily wood-panelled room.

Mycroft snorts. “Every single night,” he deadpans. “It’s Paddington Station in here.”

Greg grins and brushes their mouths together again. “Slag,” he murmurs, and after that Mycroft feels the need to live up to the title. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft finds his way to Hackney on a frigid day in early December. Greg goes along, because when he hears what Mycroft is planning to do, he insists that he’ll need someone there with him. 

“It’s not a good neighborhood,” Greg had pointed out. “And sorry love, but you look like a character from a Forster novel. I’d feel better if you let me come with you.”

“I’ll just have Carson drive me,” Mycroft had tried. “He’s an expert in Krav Maga, you know.”

Greg had been unimpressed. “Maybe I just want to be there for you if it goes poorly and you’re upset.”

So here they are on a drizzling, freezing Friday evening, standing in front of a building that is several orders of magnitude worse than the last place Mycroft saw in person. He sighs. 

“I can wait out here,” Greg offers. 

“You may as well come with me.” Mycroft squares his shoulders. “Just… don’t be shocked when you see the inside. It’s likely to be… a bit messy.”

Messy is an understatement. In the garbage-strewn hallway there are mystery smells and streaks of grease and grime on the walls. The flat number Uncle Rudy had given him is located at the end of the ground floor hall. When Mycroft knocks, the door is already ajar and creaks open. 

“Go. Away,” a voice growls from somewhere inside the dark flat. 

“It’s me,” Mycroft says softly, seeking along the wall for a light switch. He finds it and flicks it on, but nothing happens. “Not paying our utilities, I see.”

“No,” the voice hisses. _“We_ are not. _We_ are unemployable, as _we_ both know. Or rather, _I_ am, and I can only assume that since you are here, you are soon to be shipped off to either sink or swim with the CIA. My, my, my. My little brother, My… and at such a tender age.” 

Mycroft sighs and digs in his coat pocket for his mobile. As he turns on the flashlight function, a match strikes across the room and illuminates Sherlock’s stubbled, gaunt face. 

“You rather ruined the effect,” Sherlock complains, holding the match to a candle. “Thanks for that. Who’s the cop?”

Mycroft glances back at Greg who doesn't appear particularly shocked by any of this. “He’s… not here as a cop.” 

Sherlock snorts, lurching over to a low table with the candle in hand, and uses it to light a hurricane lamp. The room, unfortunately, becomes even more visible. It is, to put it kindly, a dump. “I see,” Sherlock murmurs, half to himself. “I see, I see. Uncle Rudy trained you well, that makes sense.” 

_“Sherlock,”_ Mycroft snaps, immediately furious. “That is a _terrible_ thing to say.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says without inflection. “Sorry. Still, Mycroft, one does tend to… soak in the tendencies of others. Nature is well and good but oh, we both know that our downfall lies in the nurture. Or lack thereof.” He scoffs. “That’s nonsense. I’m talking nonsense.” Sherlock sinks down onto a stained sofa. “It’s all nature. Nature, nature, nature, chemicals and the brain and no heart, Mycroft, none. Me, especially.” He lets his head tip back against the sofa cushions. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mycroft tells him, stepping further into the room and kicking aside a fallen stack of books. “Are you high?” 

“No,” Sherlock says mournfully. “Nope. Tired, and too awake. Sick, but too well. Too sharp. _Sharp._ Edges.” 

“What do you need?” Mycroft casts his eyes around. “Other than the lights turned back on and perhaps some cleaning supplies.”

“Need you to stop coming.” Sherlock straightens again, eyes glittering at him in the low light. “Stop finding me. Stop having Rudy dig me out of my holes. If I wanted you here I would _ask_ for you to be here. I don’t _want_ you. _Go. Away.”_ His eyes flick over Mycroft’s shoulder. “You, copper, are getting yourself into a mess. I hope you realize that.”

Greg says nothing. 

Mycroft steps forward again. “I don’t care if you want me or not,” he says. “Until one of us is dead, we’re stuck with each other. Apologies if that doesn't work for you.” 

“Going off to Virginia and then god knows where, that’s one way for you to be the first to go. You will _hate_ it Mycroft. Believe me. But hey, if you ever make it to Florida, I know a retired stripper there who will make you a fantastic cup of tea.” Sherlock lists to the side. “Or maybe she’s in London now? Not sure. Dunno. Could be!” He shams a smile. “Everything’s a surprise when you’re a junkie.” 

Mycroft is close now, only the low, scratched coffee table between them. “I wish you would… _want_ to live.” 

“Oh, My, no, you don’t. You don’t want me. Certainly don’t need me. You’re much better off. Though, really, reconsider the move.” 

“What will I do when Uncle Rudy is gone?”

“Do you mean what will you do to horn in on my business without his network of sycophant spies? Or what will you do without an eccentric homosexual mentor? You are barking up the wrong tree. I can’t fill those shoes.” 

“You are my _family.”_

 _“Mummy and Daddy_ are your family. Go out to Sussex and let her hug you like she never did when you were small.”

Mycroft sighs. 

Greg steps up close to his back, warm and close but not quite touching. 

“He’s older than I thought.” Sherlock leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Older than me. Scandalous. What’s your name, officer?”

“It’s Chief Inspector. Lestrade.” 

Sherlock chuckles. “Ah, yes, right.” He stretches. “The one that gave Dimmock that legendary reaming out. Everyone was talking about it. I told him, you know, about Croydon. He’s a bit clueless, but he’s just green. Instincts aren’t completely terrible. He’ll get there.”

Mycroft is busy untangling all of that when Greg sucks in a sharp breath behind him. 

“How in the hell—” 

“You would have heard of me,” Sherlock mutters. “I would think. I know for a fact D.I. Donovan has threatened to go to you about me for years.” 

“You’re the lunatic,” Greg says with dawning comprehension. “The one they keep having to drag off crime scenes. Gregson has a tally over her desk for every time she has to plop you in the drunk tank.”

Sherlock grins. “Thirty three. Dimmock, though, he wants so _badly_ to get in your good graces. Occasionally, he listens to me. You know, Lestrade, if you wanted a younger, willing piece of arse, Dimmock would have—” 

“That’s enough,” Greg snaps. 

At the same time, Mycroft laughs. “Oh, Sherlock, _please.”_

Sherlock’s still smiling. A little more softly now. “He cares about you,” he says. “Good. Try not to ditch him for some awful American. That won’t end well for you. Assuming you live.” 

Mycroft worries at a hangnail, and it stings. “I’ll live,” he says. “I’ll also pay up your electricity here in advance. Perhaps you would like a brief stay in a nice facility while I also send in a cleaning crew?”

“No,” Sherlock drawls. “But thanks ever so for the offer.”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

His brother blinks at him slowly. Mycroft has never said that to him. Sherlock has never said that to Mycroft. Sherlock’s gaze slides to Greg again. 

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Shut the door on your way out.”

  
  


***

  
  


That night, Greg stops once they’re both naked and seems to get stuck propped on his elbows over Mycroft, eyes scanning him as if for injuries. 

“I’m fine,” Mycroft says. 

“I know you are,” Greg murmurs, and presses his lips to Mycroft’s, firm and sweet. “I’m… I’m so proud of you, you know. That was really tough today, and you held it together.”

“That was tame,” Mycroft murmurs. “But thank you. You being there helped in more ways than one. I’m amazed at the smallness of the world. That he knew you by name.”

Greg smiles and presses more kisses to Mycroft’s cheeks and nose. “I think, you know, just sometimes… that maybe things like fate or whatever are real. But then, other times I think - maybe I’m just really lucky. Or maybe your friend from the pub is psychic. All sorts of options, really.”

Mycroft laughs and tips his face, chasing down another kiss, Greg’s mouth on his and the warmth of his breath. “All sorts,” he echoes. “Now will you please stop mooning over me and perhaps let me suck you off or something, because it has been a long day and I feel I deserve it.”

“Oh,” Greg grins. “Yeah, you do. But I have plans for you, so just. Hold still.”

Mycroft whines, wriggling as Greg slides down his body. “But I could—” 

“Shh… You first. Lie back and think of England, darling.”

Mycroft barks a laugh and then chokes on it with the first wet slide of tongue. _“Ah!”_

“Or America, I suppose,” Greg mutters darkly into the crease of Mycroft’s hip. 

“No,” Mycroft gasps as he’s swallowed down. “Always England. I promise.”

  
  


***

  
  


“You’re being too gentle!”

“Are you serious?” Greg leans away. “I— are you _critiquing me?”_

Mycroft grits his teeth. “You have been like this for weeks. It was nice at first and now I want to feel it in my bloody _jaw,_ so if you would do me a favor and call me a slutty boy and fuck me into oblivion, _that would be lovely.”_

Greg blinks down at him. “Jesus Christ, Mycroft.”

“Look.” Mycroft struggles up onto his elbows. “I understand that we’re both terribly upset about the fact that I’m leaving in a week, but genuinely, if we spend the entirety of the time before I go having the sort of sex we have _never actually had,_ it’s just going to be confusing. I already feel confused. I’m already wondering if I hallucinated nearly six months of kinky sex, because you keep handling me like glass and not letting me beg you for anything and I just. Want. I _need_ this. I need you like you’ve always been, not whatever this is.” 

Greg sighs and shifts back, sliding out of him with a tiny little sound of loss in the back of his throat. “Right,” he says. “Turn over.” 

Mycroft swallows, suddenly afraid he’s ruined everything. “Wait, I didn’t mean— I’m sorry, I do love when you’re sweet to me, I just—” 

“Turn. Over.” 

They stare at each other. Mycroft nods and does as he’s told. 

“Get up on your knees.” 

Mycroft shivers and does that too, and sighs happily at the broad hand between his shoulder blades pressing his chest down to the bed. He stretches his arms out in front of him and grips hopefully at the edge of the mattress. 

“I’m sorry,” Greg says, and slides back into him in one smooth motion. “I didn’t mean to. I would never want you to doubt this. Move back on me, yeah, like that.”

Mycroft moans low in his chest and rocks, fucking himself back with Greg’s fingers firm around his hips. 

“I love you, baby, I just don’t know how to make sure you really know it, I want you to think about me and _know it.”_

“I _do_ know.” 

Greg meets the backward roll of Mycroft’s hips with a hard thrust in. “This is what you want?”

 _“Yes,_ and harder.” 

“If you’re good.”

Mycroft laughs against the sheets, relief warm in his veins. “I _am_ good.” 

“You literally just gave me a performance review while I was inside you.” Greg sets a steady, deep rhythm. “God, but you feel amazing. I love your arse, I can never stop thinking about it.” 

Mycroft whines and tries to shove back, but is held by firm hands and admonished with a stinging smack to the top of his thigh. “Please!” 

“Please, what?”

“Please, fuck me harder.” 

“Please, fuck me harder, who?”

Mycroft laughs again, heart racing. “Please, fuck me harder, Daddy. Please, I’ll be good, I promise.” He shouts into the mattress when he’s finally given what he wants. _“Oh!_ Thank you, tha— _Ah!”_

Another slap to the arse, this time followed by a possessive squeeze. “You’re so shameless.” 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft sobs. 

“Don’t be sorry. You know Daddy loves it when you’re an eager little slut.”

Mycroft shudders. He hates how much he loves that. He sometimes wishes Greg would be a little meaner about it, but he’s also not sure if he could bear it. Would it set his nerves on fire to be called worse things? Or would it break his heart? Would he be able to hear the love in it? He doesn't know and he doesn't want to find out mere days before he boards a plane. He keeps his mouth shut and simply whimpers, happy with what he’s being given. 

However. 

“Do that thing?” He turns his face to the side so Greg can see his eyes if he wants to. “The thing from the other night?”

“Are you asking to have your hair pulled?”

Mycroft flushes. “Maybe.”

A slap to the other cheek and now Greg’s fingers sink into his flesh like claws. “Be decisive, baby, I’m not a mind reader.” 

_“Yes,”_ Mycroft grits. “Yes, please, make it hurt a little? Do it harder than before?”

“Anything for you, baby.” And Greg’s hand strokes up his back and into his hair. “Get up on your elbows.”

Mycroft dissolves at the first sharp tug. It’s just so… it hurts but it also tickles with the sweep of goosebumps down his neck and chest from his scalp. It helps him, calms him, brings forth the gossamer around the edges of everything. Greg tugs carefully, a little too gently. Mycroft arches into it, squirming his hips and pressing up as far as he can into the touch with a whine. 

“Like this?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “More?”

“Do better.”

“More, please, Daddy?” 

Greg’s fingers tighten. 

_“Oh—”_

“You’re gonna come while I’m in you.” Greg pushes into him hard. “Or not at all.”

“Fuck,” Mycroft breathes. “I will, I’ll do it, just—” 

Greg hauls him up by his hair, holds him against his chest. “Fuck yourself on my cock,” he whispers roughly, mouth brushing Mycroft’s ear and then his neck. “Do it.” His fingers pull sharply. 

Mycroft does it, bounces and grinds, his own neglected erection swaying between his legs, dripping precome onto his thigh. “Daddy,” he breathes. “Oh, god, so good—” 

“I know it is.” The fingers comb through and then grip tight again. “I know, baby.” His other hand curls around Mycroft’s waist, wraps tight around his cock. “Go on.” 

Mycroft moves, twisting and squirming against and into the hold. The softness isn’t only on the edges any longer. It settles on him, muffles everything that isn’t skin on skin and Daddy’s voice. 

The sounds he makes are mindless and probably, he thinks, embarrassing. But he doesn't actually care. It’s hot and close and tight. It hurts and it feels like bliss. There are teeth set against his shoulder and big thighs spreading under him, splaying him open. 

“Oh, you’re so good, baby.” 

Mycroft’s head is yanked to the side, and the teeth at his shoulder scrape up the side of his neck. He keens as his pulse point is sucked hard, then bitten, then sucked again and soothed with a hot tongue. “Daddy, please—” 

“Wanna come?”

“Yes!” 

Daddy’s fist twists over his cock. His fingers yank and dig into Mycroft’s hair. His teeth close over Mycroft’s earlobe. “Then come.”

Mycroft sobs, trying to slam himself down into Daddy’s lap. Trying to circle his hips and grind. “I can’t.” 

“Lean forward.”

Mycroft catches himself with a hand on the mattress. The angle gives him a little more room to move, and more importantly, there’s more room for his Daddy to thrust up and into him over and over and over, relentless and pounding, every move pushing Mycroft’s cock through the wet circle of his fist. 

“Tell me,” Daddy rasps. “Tell me what you need.”

Mycroft can’t form words. It’s not fair to ask him to. Nothing is enough. The stretch, the scrape of teeth, the twinge of pulled hair, the pressure around his prick. None of it is hard enough, tight enough, rough enough. He wants more than this muting of the world, he wants the world to cease to exist outside of them.

“I see.” The hand in his hair lets go. And then that same hand hits him. Hard. On the outside of his thigh, low on his arse cheek. 

It actually _hurts._ It’s not just a sting. It’s sublime. 

Mycroft gasps. “Oh, fuck.” 

“Yes?”

_“Yes.”_

Another. And then another. Then the other side, the other hand. And then both at once, and nails digging into his hips. All the while a harsh, pounding rhythm. 

Mycroft barely breathes, might be starting to hyperventilate. The overload is so _delicious._

“Close,” he manages. “Close, close, close.”

Greg knocks him down to the mattress again, first onto his elbows and then all the way down, hand in his hair shoving his face against the sheets. The other hand smacks him hard once and then slips back around to jerk him mercilessly in time with the rough shove inside. 

Mycroft shakes, the tension overwhelming and then snapping, crackling. “Daddy.” 

“Come on.” 

_“Daddy!”_

“That’s it.”

Mycroft thinks he must be coming more than he ever has in his life. He thinks it must be the hottest load he’s ever shot, coming out of him like fire, burning to match the reddened flesh of his backside, the pinpricks of pain in his scalp. 

And Daddy doesn't stop or slow or gentle him through. Just fucks him and fucks him, and then his come-splattered hand is held to Mycroft’s mouth and Mycroft is lapping at it eagerly, and then he’s being filled and marked and burnt alive again as his Daddy comes with a shout, thighs flush against him, two fingers slipping right into Mycroft’s gasping mouth. 

The silence after is deafening for the space of a breath, and then it is filled with a shaky exhale. 

“Mycroft.”

“I’m good.”

“I’m not.”

Mycroft struggles to understand that. He winces at the gentle withdrawal from his body, and moves with the prodding hands turning him over. He blinks up into Greg’s wrecked face. He’s devastated. It’s clear in his eyes, the set of his mouth. Mycroft shakes his head, reaches for his face with both hands. 

“No, no,” he says, a little panicked. “No, it’s all fine.”

“Please—” Greg breathes, and looks away. “No, I can’t talk, because if I do I’ll _beg_ you not to—”

Mycroft winces and pulls him down. “Hold me,” he murmurs. “Just come here and hold me like you always do. I need you to. I need you to take care of me now. Can you?”

“Oh,” Greg’s shaking hand lays against Mycroft’s cheek. “Sweetheart, I always can.”

“Was that… was it too much? Too… intense?” Mycroft wriggles into Greg’s arms now that he’s settled against him. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to ask for too much all of the time. I—”

“No,” Greg interrupts, firm and solid again, surer than he was a moment ago. “No, it was fantastic. It was world ending, as usual.” His face tries to crumple and he hides it against Mycroft’s neck. “I’m just. I’ll miss this. I’ll miss you.”

Mycroft wraps both arms around him. “I know. I _already_ miss you. I love you. I love you so much.”

Greg holds him tightly and kisses his forehead. “And for the record,” he says. “You have never once asked me for too much. Not ever.”

Mycroft breathes in against his neck. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, good.” 

Thank god, really, that just this once, Mycroft is not too much. Not too strange. Not too anything. It might be what keeps him going while he’s gone. 

It might be what saves him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things.  
> 1) Sherlock-related talk/depiction of addiction  
> 2) Some more intense stuff w/r/t spanking and a little pain play. Nothing extreme IMO, but a bit more than you've seen so far in this fic.  
> 3) This one has some angsty bits but let me take this opportunity to reassure you of my continued intention to work through any and all even slightly negative feelings with copious sex and cuddles, and reiterate that this is never going to be a sad story.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angst here, check notes at the end for warnings!  
> Otherwise, there is also a ramp-up in some kink goin' on, so check the tags for that.

**January**

**MH(11:07pm):** Forget the job, I’m going to die from the physical training or possibly the way Americans drive. 

**GL(11:09pm):** Aww, baby, you off for the night?

**MH(11:13pm):** Nearly. Class at half six. Going to bed?

**GL(11:14pm):** Not yet. Call me.

“This is your fault,” Mycroft says tightly. “I gained  _ eight pounds _ thanks to you,  _ and  _ fell behind on my running schedule, and now I’m going to have a heart attack.”

Greg laughs, leaning against his kitchen counter with one last bottle of cider in hand. “Oh no, at the ripe old age of twenty! All because of eight pounds and five miles thrice a week instead of every day.” 

“Don’t make fun,” Mycroft says with mock outrage. “You know I don’t even  _ like _ running? It’s just that it worked. I refuse to believe that a runner’s high is real. I’ve  _ never _ had one. Just a red face and burning chest. Disgusting.”

“Oh, I’ve had it!” Greg grins. “Wish I could still go that hard, but my knee would probably dig its way out of my body if I tried. It’s great, usually hits me around the tenth.”

_ “Mile?” _

Greg laughs. 

“You are so unfair,” Mycroft complains, and Greg can hear the pout, can picture it. “Is there anything about you that isn’t fantastic and perfect? Unbearable.”

“I love you, too.”

A tiny throat clearing. “Yes?”

“Mmhmm.”

Mycroft sighs as if he’s relieved. As if he had anything to worry about. “I love you.” 

“Miss me?”

“If I start telling you how much I miss you I’ll go to class with a puffy face.” Mycroft sighs. “I also have  _ weight training.  _ If I ever want to pass the obstacle course, I have no choice. God. I’m sure you lift with perfect form and barely break a sweat.”

Greg barks another laugh. “You numpty, you know I don’t. You  _ know _ I look disgusting when I get home from the gym.”

“You look gorgeous when you come home from the gym.” Mycroft makes a speculative sound. “You should video chat me next time you finish a workout.”

“It would be awfully early for you.” 

“Then I will start my day off  _ very _ relaxed.” Mycroft sighs. “I’ve got to go. Please have a wank before bed and think of me.”

Greg wipes at his smile with one hand. “Sure,” he says. “Call me tomorrow. Whenever. Any time. I’ll drop anything I’m doing. Yes?”

“Alright. I love you.”

“I love you.” Greg’s hand moves to his chest, rubbing absently over his breastbone, where it aches the most. “Go. Don’t be late.”

“Mm. Bye, Daddy.” This last delivered in a sweet little whisper, and then the line goes dead. 

Greg hadn’t had any intention of  _ actually  _ wanking before bed but that soft little word… He leaves the nearly-full cider on the counter and goes. 

  
  


***

  
  


**February**

“Happy Valentine's Day,” Greg murmurs. It’s late for him, but he took the day off, napped, made bloody sure he could have this precious little phone date. 

“I do hope you plan to take me somewhere nice,” Mycroft teases. “I’m very discerning.”

“Your bedroom alright?”

Mycroft huffs. “I  _ suppose.”  _

“So,” Greg starts, dropping his voice low. “What are you wearing?”

There’s a delighted giggle over the line.  _ “Oh,  _ so it’s like this.” 

“Yeah. Problem?”

“Oh no, of course not. Only that it’s a very short answer: nothing.”

Greg grins. “Great. Skype?”

“Oh, yes.”

  
***

**March**

**MH(11:56am):** Look at this

**MH(11:56am):** IMG_67895.jpg

**GL(12:00pm):** Good god. What do they feed them over there?

**MH(12:02pm):** I am reliably informed that it’s apple pie and freedom that does it. 

“Hello?”

“Do you have a thing for that bloke from the gym?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. Greg doesn't know  _ how _ it’s audible, but it just is. “You’re joking.”

“I mean, I’m not… I’m not trying to be  _ jealous, _ I’m just curious.” Greg chews his lip. It’s late, and he’s had most of the day to contemplate Mycroft being taught how to use a leg press by the young, gorgeous, tanned man he had sent a photo of earlier in the day. 

“I sent you that picture,” Mycroft says patiently, “to commiserate over the unfair hotness of my very loud, very heterosexual, very  _ American _ coworker. I thought  _ you _ would appreciate him, being that you are a complete arse man, and I am sadly lacking in that department. Or, I was. You would be amazed what squats have been doing for me.” 

Greg sits up on the sofa. “Oh?”

Mycroft snorts. “Christ. You’ll have to wait and see.” He pauses, then clears his throat. “Is this a problem? I can tell…  _ Jim… _ that I would rather exercise on my own.” 

_ “Jim?” _

“He won’t tolerate being called James. Ugh.” 

Greg can’t help but laugh. “You’re so fussy.” 

“You love it. Are you in bed?”

“Sofa.”

“Are you really worried I’ll fuck  _ Jim?  _ He’s twenty-three and an idiot.” 

“Well I didn’t say you had to marry him. And I mean, maybe I just wanted to play with that idea for a minute. You’re hot, he’s hot. It’s a nice mental picture.”  _ Kind of. _

“Eh,” Mycroft says, like he isn’t convinced. “And anyway, he’s straight.” 

“Well, that’s no fun…” Greg thinks, and then experiences a rare stroke of genius. Hopefully he isn’t completely miscalculating, but... “What if  _ I  _ fucked Jim?”

_ “What?” _

“Think about it.” 

Mycroft stutters and then stops. “Hmmm…”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“And where would I be for this? Dead? Dumped? Inapacitated?”

Greg smiles, an idle hand rubbing at his own belly through his t-shirt. “You’re there, of course.” 

“Am I?” Mycroft hums. “In that case,  _ I  _ fuck Jim, but you tell me what to do.”

“Oh, you genius,” Greg breathes. “I hope you have your cock out.” 

“Obviously,” Mycroft replies, haughty. “Don’t you?”

“Now I do.” Greg shifts down, gets comfortable as he shoves down his boxers. “Now tell me what you want me to tell you to do to this Jim.” 

“No,” Mycroft drawls impatiently. “You do the telling. I’m not the Daddy here, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Never.” Greg grins at his ceiling. “Just Jim, hmm? Do we call in anyone else? Any of those agents in charge meet your exacting standards? Any other sweet young things strike you as meeting mine? You know how you get. Maybe with a few more hands on deck you would  _ finally  _ be satisfied.”

Mycroft makes a strangled little sound. “Never. Never, never.” 

“Hm, then I suppose it’s a waste of time filling the room. Just you, and me, and… Jim.” 

Mycroft giggles through a breathy little gasp. “Oh no,” he says. “He’ll know that I like to be called a filthy slut.” 

“Maybe he likes it, too.” Greg hums, going easy on himself with a loose fist and aimless strokes. 

“Or maybe he keeps his mouth shut and I don’t care what he likes because that’s not what he’s there for.”

“Holy shit.” Greg’s hand spasms around his cock. “Jesus, Mycroft. You secret little dom.” 

“Secret,” Mycroft scoffs. “I boss you around constantly.”

“Not like  _ that.” _ Greg gives himself permission to hitch into his own grip, curl his fingers tighter. “That was hot.” 

“Was it? What would be better?” Mycroft’s breath is getting harsher. “Do I gag him? Do I ignore your instructions so that you have no choice but to step in? Do you fuck me while I’m inside him?”

“Baby, are you trying to finish me off already?” Greg forces himself to pull his hand away, twitching against his belly with a smear of precome. “Fucking hell.”

“Let’s kick Jim out,” Mycroft says softly. “I’m not really interested in fucking him at all. I may be a slut, but only for you.”

“Only for me,” Greg echoes. “That’s right, you’re mine.”

“I wish you would—” Mycroft swallows mid-sentence, and even over the phone Greg can here the click of his throat, the nerves in it. “Sometimes I wish you would say things to me.”

“What sorts of things?” Greg lets his hand return to his cock, touching idly this time, wanting to see where this goes. 

“... _ worse _ things,” Mycroft murmurs, a little vague. “Nastier things.” 

“You want me to be mean to you?” 

“Not… exactly.” 

Greg traces absently with one finger, spreading precome over himself. “Like what, then?”

“Like… Like when you tell me I’m slutty or call me a slag. I want that, but… just. More.” 

Greg replaces his finger with his palm, swiping over the head of his prick and then down, a smooth motion that could be smoother. He’s certainly not getting up to find lube, not when things are just getting interesting. He licks his palm and gets back to it. 

“So you want me to tell you that you’re my little shameless slut?” Greg tries. “That it’s a good thing you love taking cock so much, because really, it’s all you’re good for?”

He delivers the line as calmly as he can manage, despite the nerves in his chest, the tremble in his hand, and the burn of how hot it is - or at least, could be - crawling up the back of his neck. 

Mycroft draws in a sharp breath. “Yes,” he says. “Like that.” 

“And how do I know if I’ve gone too far?” Greg squeezes himself at the base, grits his teeth for a second. “I don’t want to actually hurt you, you know. I don’t want you to ever think—” 

“I’ll tell you if you go too far.” 

“How?”

“What do you mean, how?”

“I mean,” Greg says, trying to sound patient and gentle, and not completely strangled by anxious arousal. “I say something really out there, I say something like, I could keep you here, spread open for me and dripping wet, and only bother to show up when I want to come in your used up little hole, and you would beg me for more because you’re such a nasty little whore — what do you say?”

Mycroft gasps, ragged. “I… I say  _ nothing,  _ probably, because I’m too busy coming everywhere, because—” 

_ “Are _ you coming everywhere?”

_ “Nearly.”  _

“Stop touching yourself.” 

Mycroft whines. 

“Fine, you liked that? What if I say it doesn't even matter to me if you want it. I’ll take what I want whenever I want?” 

“Oh, god…” 

“Is that what you want? You want to be used like that? Nothing else. You get nothing else from me.” 

“No,” Mycroft whimpers. “I don’t. I don’t want that.”

“But do you want me to  _ say  _ it?”

“Oh, god, yes.” 

Greg is going to break a tooth clenching his jaw this hard. “Then how do I know the difference? Where’s the line?”

“I’ll… safeword. Give me one. Why don’t we have one? Pick one, quickly, and please for the love of god let me come.”

Greg can’t help the hysterical laugh that escapes at that. “Um… Blueberries.”

“That is so stupid,” Mycroft snaps. “But fine, good, wonderful.  _ Blueberries.  _ May I touch my cock now?”

“Yes,” Greg says, not laughing but only just managing it. “You may.”

Mycroft makes a sweet little sound of relief. “Talk to me, please.”

Greg gives himself a firm stroke and sucks on his teeth, eyes practically rolling back in his head. Why does this work for him? Why does  _ everything _ Mycroft asks of him  _ work  _ for him? “I take back what I said,” Greg says, scrambling for something. “About it being a waste of time, bringing in a team of Daddies for you. Maybe you won’t be satisfied, but it’d be fun to watch. God, and you would  _ love _ it, because you love attention. You need it. You’re so fucking desperate for it, aren’t you?”

“Mmm— “

“Imagine it, baby, all those big men using you up in front of me. I’ll let them do whatever they want to you. You’ll be covered in come by the end of it. You won’t walk for days.”

“Please—”

“Please, what?”

“Please don’t— don’t let them— I just want—” 

“Do I care what you want?” Greg licks his lips. “I don’t know if I do. Or, I do, but I know what’s best for you, don’t I? You’ll do what I tell you to do, won’t you?”

“Not that.” Mycroft punctuates this with a sob. “Please, Daddy, don’t make me.”

“You would have to earn it. My mercy. How would you do that?” Greg literally gapes at himself, shocked by himself. He’s been on the edge for half this conversation, but just the complete nastiness of what he’s saying nearly kicks him over. 

“I’ll do anything,” Mycroft whines. “Anything for you, just please—” 

“What, don’t think you could take it?” 

“I don’t want to, I just want you, I—  _ god—”  _

“I don’t believe you,” Greg grits out. “Listen to you, listen to how close you are. You little cockslut, you’re dying for it. And it’s fine, baby, you don’t need to pretend. I  _ like  _ how filthy you are.”

Mycroft sounds close to hyperventilation. Greg bites his tongue before he can ask if this is really alright. That’s been covered. He doesn't want to mess it up by stopping now. 

“So just admit it, Mycroft,” Greg says gently. “You can tell me. You can tell Daddy anything. Tell me how bad you want to be used. How you’re just a mouth, just a hole, and how you need to be filled.” 

_ “No,”  _ Mycroft sobs, and then cries out, almost painfully. “Daddy—”

“That’s it,” Greg soothes. “Come all over that pretty skin.” He rededicates himself to his own slightly neglected prick. “I’m so close, baby.” 

“Wish you could be here,” Mycroft sobs,  _ really _ sobs. “I want it on me, I want your come all over me.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Greg bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. “Mycroft, I’m—” 

And he comes, rather spectacularly, with his phone held so tightly to his ear that it hurts his skull, with the tang of his own blood on his tongue, and with the sound of Mycroft’s exhausted, wrung out weeping in his ear. 

“Oh, god,” he gasps, shaking in the aftermath. “Mycroft— Sweetheart, tell me that was—” 

“I’m fine,” Mycroft says quickly, though his voice is still a little thick with tears. “I promise, I swear I’m fine. I needed that.”

Greg squeezes his eyes shut. “Oh, love.”

“I miss you.” Mycroft’s voice is soft, confessional. “I miss you so much and everything feels so unreal, but this was real. This was so good, Daddy, thank you. Thank you so much.” 

“You’re welcome, sweet boy, and thank  _ you. _ Christ, you keep me on my toes.”

Mycroft laughs weakly. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad.” 

“To be clear,” Greg says after a moment. “I would  _ never—”  _

“I know that,” Mycroft hurries to say. “It’s just talk. It’s fun. Isn’t it? It was fun for you, right?” 

“Oh,” Greg chuckles, relieved. He glances down at the mess on his belly. “Uh, yeah, it’s fun.”

Mycroft snorts. “Right.” He sighs, deep and satisfied. “I don’t want to move. Ever again.”

“Then don’t,” Greg says, already reaching for the tissues on the side table so he can clean himself up a little. “Talk to me. Stay in bed and just talk to me.” 

Mycroft hums sweetly in his ear. “Tell me what you did today. Leave nothing out.” 

“It’s boring,” Greg warns. 

“You could never be boring.” 

Greg’s in the middle of tucking his cock back into his shorts, just spun a little fantasy about serving up his boyfriend in a gangbang, so. Maybe it’s sort of true. 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg doesn't know what makes him do it, but he goes to Gregson with questions. 

“He’s been around less,” she reports, and doesn't demand to know why he’s asking. “But last time I saw him he was damned near lucid, so.” She shrugs. “That usually means he’ll be down the rabbit hole again soon. It never lasts. Bloody shame, too, because he’s  _ unbelievable.” _

“Hmm.” Greg’s zoned out, eyes on the numbers over Gregson’s desk, scrawled on a whiteboard labeled  _ Holmeswatch.  _ The number is now 57. What had it been when Greg and Mycroft went out to Hackney? In the thirties? It’s been four months.

“Is there anything else? Sir?” 

Greg twitches her a smile. He wishes she wouldn’t call him ‘sir.’ They came up through the ranks together. “No, Gregson, that was all. Satisfying my curiosity.”

He needs to speak with Dimmock next. 

  
  


***

  
  


The flat is much improved since the last time Greg visited, though that isn’t saying much. Sherlock opens the door, blinks at him, and then abandons him there in the doorway, disappearing into the kitchenette. 

“Does Mycroft know you’re here?”

“No,” Greg says, raising his voice so he can be heard from the lounge. He’ll follow to the kitchen in a moment - he wants the chance to poke around the flat. “Dimmock does, though.”

Sherlock’s head of unruly dark hair pokes out of the doorway. “Why?”

Greg picks up a book from the top of a haphazard pile. It’s a beekeeping manual. Under it is a book about forensics methodology in cases of arson. The place is a tip, but it’s more messy than dirty. There is no garbage on the floor or festering plates of leftovers. 

“You sober?”

Sherlock snorts and retreats back into the kitchen.  _ “Ish,”  _ he replies. 

Greg steps over a violin case and leans in the doorway. He has to blink at the setup. “Jesus, is this a meth lab?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffs. “Of course I would make an excellent drugs cook and would never make an error, but there are people living on either side of me  _ and  _ above me. I would never do it here, if I were to do it. Which I don’t.” He drops a tablet into a conical flask. It fizzes, and Sherlock swishes it around. “I have a private client. Thinks the neighbor’s poisoning her Malamutes.” 

Greg blinks again. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Sherlock retrieves a pair of tweezers and leans close to a pile of dog fur in a small dish. “I’m not certain that’s the case. Possible the husband’s doing it, or  _ she  _ is. They’re show dogs. Highly insured.  _ Massive  _ payouts.”

“Right,” Greg murmurs, and watches as Sherlock drops a clump of fur into the flask, the liquid inside blooming green, before setting it aside. 

“Have you heard from my brother?” Sherlock doesn't turn from the worktop. He’s already reaching for a microscope and shoving a bunch of glass out of the way with a loud cacophony of clinks as he slides it across the bench. 

“Almost daily,” Greg says easily. “You?”

“He texted twice.” Sherlock goes about preparing a slide for one of the dog hairs. “Got my phone turned back on just so he could, most likely. He’s awfully persistent.” 

“Yes, well.” Greg sighs. “He loves you.” 

“That’s not very smart of him.” Sherlock flicks a glance over his shoulder. “So? What is it you’re doing here?”

“Offering you a deal,” Greg says. “You should take it.”

Sherlock turns away again. “Mycroft asked you to do it?”

“No. Actually, it would be better if you didn’t tell him I came here. I don’t want him getting all stressed about it.”

“I don’t want a deal from my little brother’s… whatever you are.” 

“It isn’t about Mycroft.” Greg rolls his eyes and tries not to laugh. “You’re a real peach, aren’t you? Don’t you want to know the terms?”

Sherlock makes a dismissive sound, bends to the microscope, then motions impatiently over his shoulder.  _ “Go on.”  _

“From everything I’ve heard, you’re incredible. You’re smart as Mycroft, I’d bet—”

“He’s smarter,” Sherlock interrupts, bland as can be. “But yes, I’m very intelligent and possess the same inclination toward deductive reasoning. It’s why I outpace your detectives at every turn. I’ve been trying to tell them I could be of use to them for the better part of a decade.”

“Well,” Greg says patiently. “You’re not exactly an asset if you’re high off your tits.” 

Sherlock makes another dismissive little sound, a click of the tongue. 

“We don’t just solve cases,” Greg continues. “We get convictions. A junkie stumbling around the place mucking things up puts that in jeopardy. Not only that, but Gregson says you have a tendency to hare off on your own. Dimmock says he’s had to call 999 on your behalf more than once. A stabbing, a near-drowning, a fall off a building into a skip. Missing anything?”

“Dimmock called 999 the last time I overdosed.” 

Greg pauses, a little shocked. “Jesus. And when was that?”

“Two years ago.”

Greg shakes his head. “So what, my D.I.s and their teams are out there running after your crazy arse so often they’re finding you half-dead, and I’m just now hearing about it in any detail?”

“I help them,” Sherlock says, as if that explains it. He finally turns from his microscope, bright blue eyes narrowed. “Get to the point, Lestrade. What’s the deal?”

“Get clean. I’ll give you a place with us. With the Met.” 

“I have no desire to be a cop,” Sherlock says, eyebrows raised. “You  _ must _ realize that.” 

Greg snorts. “Uh, yeah. The temperament is very familiar to me and seems to run in the family, you’re certainly not built for it.” He shrugs. “I have connections with medical examiners, forensic chemists, biologists, even anthropologists. You wouldn’t believe the resources I’ve needed over the years. We pay for consultancy from other experts. I could figure something out for you.” 

“And what? I follow procedure like a good little boy, and you…” Sherlock smirks. “Oh, sorry, insensitive choice of words.” 

It takes Greg a moment, but he does catch the joke. He rolls his eyes through his embarrassment and refuses to react beyond a flush he can’t help. “Procedure will be something you respect, yes. Look, are you interested, or not?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, and turns his back on Greg. “Leave your number. I’ll be in touch.” Then, he sing-songs: “Bye, now!”

  
  


***

  
  


**May**

Mycroft calls, and it’s very early in the morning. Practically the middle of the night. Greg’s instantly worried as he fumbles for his phone.

“Sweetheart?”

“I’m boarding a plane in an hour,” Mycroft says, and his voice is steady but it rasps out of him. “Uncle Rudy. He’s— I’m boarding a plane. Will you... Will you go? Go to the house. The nurse knows you, she will let you in. I need— I need you to be there. I need you to see him and call me and tell me what— tell me what to expect.  _ Please.  _ Please, Greg, can you—” 

“Baby,” Greg murmurs, soothing. “Of course, of course, I’m already getting dressed.” And he is, trying to get into his jeans with one hand and hold the phone with the other. 

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Mycroft says. “But my parents are in Mozambique on bloody safari and Sher— there’s no one else. The nurse is dancing around it. And I’m— I’m so. I’m terrified, I— I don’t want to do it, I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see him, and that’s  _ awful,  _ isn’t it? I’m a terrible per—” 

“It’s perfectly normal,” Greg interrupts, because it  _ is.  _ “It’s alright, love, you’re fine.”

“And I need to see him. I need to talk to him and th-thank—” There’s a sound so small and pained that it breaks Greg’s heart. “Greg.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Greg sinks to the bed, jeans up around his hips but not fastened. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Thank you for answering the phone.”

Greg rubs at his eyes. “I would never not.” 

“Call me when you know something?”

“Yes. Safe flight, baby.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg calls Mycroft from the house in Belgravia. Mycroft is in line to board. 

“It’s right for you to come home,” Greg says. “Right now.” 

Mycroft’s breath catches, and then evens, a long, steadying inhale. Greg can picture it. Picture his eyes closing carefully, his face smoothing. “Alright,” he says. “Alright.”

“I’ll be here when you get in. I’ll stay with him.” 

Mycroft’s breath catches again, and Greg can hear that his throat is tight when he says, “Thank you.”

  
  


***

  
  


Greg has all of three minutes to catch Mycroft, a vague impression of exhausted eyes and a very nice suit, in a hug - processing the breadth of him, the new muscle and the weight,  _ whoa -  _ and press a hard kiss to his temple - fresh haircut, a slightly different style, more clean-cut even than before - before he disappears into the bedroom. 

Greg watches him go and wishes he could take the pain of all of this away. Instead he tells the nurse he’ll wait for Mycroft upstairs, and goes to catch a little sleep on the sofa in the lounge. 

He isn’t up there long, has only just dozed a bit. It’s somewhere around mid-morning, maybe even noon by now, but it’s dark in Mycroft’s rooms with the drapes over the windows. When the door to the suite opens, the light from the hall spills in and then is gone with the click of the door. Greg struggles up onto his elbows. “Mycroft?”

“You don’t have to get up.” 

Greg hears the fwhump of a suit jacket hitting the floor and the thud of shoes being taken off. “Come over here,” he says gently. 

“I am.” 

In the dim light, Greg can’t really see him - just an outline - but the moment Mycroft slips into his lap, Greg has him, gets his arms around him right away, one crossed up over his body to bury a hand in his hair. “Jesus, you feel so good. I missed you so much. Are you alright?”

Mycroft’s face had gone instantly to the crook of Greg’s shoulder. He shakes his head and hangs on tight, squeezing Greg just this side of too tight with arms that had  _ not _ been this strong six months ago. 

“Oh, sweetheart…” Greg pets over his head and shoulders. “I’m here, okay, I’ve got you.” 

“I can’t believe you did this for me,” Mycroft says tightly. “Thank you so much, thank you for making sure he wasn’t alone.” 

“I told him you were coming.” 

Mycroft shudders. “I’m sure he could hear. He’s… it won’t be long.”

“Yeah,” Greg says softly. “You want to get a little rest? It must feel like early morning to you, but you didn’t sleep all night.”

“Maybe.” Mycroft leans away. “I don’t know. I need to try to get in touch with Sherlock. He hasn’t answered my calls, I’ve tried all night.” 

Greg stills, fingers worrying at the fine fabric of Mycroft’s shirt at his shoulders. He wouldn’t spill these beans in any other situation, but… 

“Sherlock doesn't have his phone, love,” he says gently. 

“Wh—” 

“He’s at a rehab centre. In Kent. They don’t allow devices for the first six weeks.” 

Mycroft’s breath catches. “He’s… he’s what?”

“He asked me not to tell you, but I think the circumstances are more than extenuating. We can call the centre if you like.” 

Mycroft’s hands come up, grasp Greg’s shoulders tightly. “What did you do?”

“Nothing much,” Greg murmurs. “It doesn't matter.”

Mycroft’s hands spasm. “It matters,” he chokes. “How? How did you do it?”

“I made him a deal. Crime scenes for getting clean.” 

Mycroft’s breath leaves him in a shaky exhale. “You…” He takes handfuls of Greg’s t-shirt and makes a low, wounded sound. “You did that?”

“Yeah.” Greg tries to soothe him with gentle hands on his back. “Yeah, he’s doing really well.”

And Mycroft falls apart. 

His chest heaves against Greg’s, his breaths harsh and quick for a moment as he tries not to. But then he sobs, a wrenching, awful sound that tears Greg’s heart in half. He can’t do anything but hold him closer, hold him together. “Thank you,” Mycroft manages, tears soaking Greg’s collar. “Oh, god, thank you.” 

“It’s okay,” Greg murmurs, knowing this is half Sherlock and half a sort of preemptive grief. Somewhere in there exhaustion and jetlag need factoring in. “It’s okay.” And by this he means:  _ Sherlock will be okay. You will be okay. And still it is okay to cry.  _

Mycroft must understand, because he cries for a very long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter does deal with Uncle Rudy's very old age and his eventual passing, which will happen off-screen but will be discussed here and at the beginning of the next chapter. There is no graphic depiction of illness or death. There is a depiction of Mycroft's grief. As always, I promise to take good care of him. 
> 
> After this, there will be very little angst in this fic (I think). This is just part of what makes up a life, and this fic is primarily concerned with how Mycroft's life grows and how Greg makes it better, and vice versa - with a healthy heaping dose of smut. So like I've said before, there's some sad with the sweet, because that's how things are sometimes. But the sweet in this fic strives to go well beyond what we usually get IRL, because we all would love a Greg Lestrade and his big strong arms and easy grin to get us through the rough times, or a slightly awkward but surprisingly sweet Mycroft to help us fix it. I started writing this as an indulgence, and that is still what it is, to me <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a little break yesterday, but we're back at it again with this fic that just sort of keeps...growing. The darn thing's got wings! There's plot in my porn! Oh well.
> 
> Heads up for Mycroft's established body image issues coming up in this one, and then a non-graphic mention of some injuries.

Mycroft realizes it’s over and done around the time Greg herds him into the flat and starts undressing him. 

“Wait—” Mycroft catches his hands. “Wait, I— Is it alright that we’re here? Should I… What should I—”

“You said you didn’t want to stay at the house after the funeral.” Greg’s eyes and voice are patient. He pets Mycroft’s shoulders through his suit jacket, which he’s just unbuttoned. 

“I don’t.”

“Then you should be here with me. Right?”

Mycroft closes his eyes. Lets that penetrate the fog he’s been in. “Right,” he says. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re exhausted,” Greg supplies, gently shucking him out of his jacket and then going for his waistcoat buttons. “But I will say this: you look absolutely gorgeous, perfectly turned out. He would have made an inappropriate comment to me about it.”

Mycroft laughs, and doesn't feel sad at all. It’s all  _ over and done,  _ he thinks again. He can take a breath. He can spend his last couple of days back in London with Greg. He can handle going back to Virginia. He managed to get through the days he’s been dreading for most of his life. 

Greg’s almost got the waistcoat off, having been a little sidetracked with the tie while Mycroft woolgathered.

“Wait,” Mycroft says again, and he wishes he could stop himself from saying what he’s about to say. But it’s been six months and he feels off-kilter now that he has room to think about it. “Greg— I. I know we’ve seen each other on video, but…”

Greg’s eyebrows draw together. “But?”

“I don’t look… the same.”

The eyebrows go up. “I mean, no, you most certainly do not. I couldn’t have missed these shoulders if I was blind.” 

“But,” Mycroft tries. Has to stop and find the words. “But what if it’s not—  _ I’m _ not—” 

“Baby,” Greg takes a step forward, hands at Mycroft’s hips. “Are you saying you think I’ll have a problem with the fact that you came home looking like a bloody demigod?”

“I  _ don’t,” _ Mycroft protests. “I’m not— it’s not as if I managed to become… chiseled. Like  _ Jim.” _

Greg’s lips quirk at the private joke, one that’s come up on the phone a couple of times recently. 

“The point is, there is not eight-pack hiding under all this. I’m just  _ wider.”  _ Mycroft winces at his own tone and word choice. “I look…  _ older.” _

Greg gapes at him. “Yeah,” he says. “And?”

“Isn’t that… I mean to say, doesn't that take away some of the—” 

He’s cut off with a kiss. A hard one, his lower lip sucked in right from the start, and bitten with a sting before it’s sucked again and soothed with a sweep of tongue. Greg’s hands move to Mycroft’s face and hold him still, his tongue tracing over and into his mouth, fingers a little hard on his cheeks and jaw until Mycroft opens to let him in. Mycroft’s entire body shudders with it. They haven’t kissed like this since Mycroft arrived home. It’s… he hadn’t realized how badly he needed it. 

“Don’t—” Greg stops himself, gentles his hands. “Don’t think you could ever be even  _ a bit  _ unappealing to me. What you look like has never been the point - though, you are gorgeous, were gorgeous, will  _ be  _ gorgeous. But you were never going to look criminally young forever, and thank  _ fuck  _ for that. I don’t care about that, Mycroft. I love that you came home looking like James bloody Bond. I’m  _ dying _ over it. Please, believe me.” 

Mycroft sways into him, lets himself be held up. “Really?”

“Do you think I’ll stop treating you the way I always have?” Greg’s hands slide up under the open waistcoat and around to Mycroft’s back, stroking sweetly. “Do you think I’ll want you less?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

Greg’s arms tighten around him and he presses his lips to Mycroft’s cheek. “Well, that’s silly. Thought you were supposed to be a genius.”

Mycroft doesn't know  _ what  _ to say. He does feel silly, and a bit stupid. And relieved. 

“I’m just teasing,” Greg murmurs. “I understand, love. But I promise you have nothing to worry about. At all. I’m honestly looking forward to test-driving all these new muscles.” His hands squeeze teasingly at Mycroft’s backside. “When you feel up to it.”

Mycroft sighs into Greg’s neck. “I’m up to it now. Please. I’ve missed you so much.” 

“Yeah?” Greg’s lips slide from his cheek to his mouth, pressing softly. “Bet I missed you more.”

“Don’t start,” Mycroft warns, but it comes out breathy. It doesn't matter that they’ve spoken constantly, had ‘dates’ over phone and camera, texted constantly, it has been  _ awful, _ and Mycroft has let himself doubt. Not so much Greg, but himself, doubting that he remembered all of this correctly. Doubting that he could ever deserve someone saying such a thing to him. “Take me to bed.” 

Greg gets rid of the waistcoat, then the tie he already loosened, tossing both to the floor at their feet. “Bet that tie costs more than my suit,” he says. 

“Who cares?” Mycroft reaches for his own buttons and has his hands batted away. 

Greg hooks a finger in the open collar of his shirt and tugs, walking backwards into the flat. “Bed. And I’m undressing you. Hands to yourself.”

Mycroft feels warm, full of a fizzing heat that’s spreading through cold limbs that haven’t felt like his own in  _ months.  _ And then, as he’s laid out and slowly stripped, he forgets to be self conscious. Because suddenly, the breadth and weight of his own body feels real again. That feels like it belongs to him now, too. Finally. Once he’s naked, Greg sits between his spread legs and simply… looks. And Mycroft doesn't feel the need to squirm. 

“Jesus,” Greg whispers. A hand spreads flat over Mycroft’s belly - which Mycroft has been glaring at daily, because once weight training had been introduced to his routine, so had a diet to support it. Rather than become triangular, with bulky upper arms and shoulders and pectorals that angle sharply into a narrow lower half lined with cuts between muscles - as Mycroft had naively expected - he has wound up with a rather thicker build. 

_ Yeah, _ Jim had scoffed.  _ You’re not a fuckin’ Mr. Universe, that’d be useless.  _

Mycroft in that moment had taken great pleasure in thinking:  _ I’ve imagined my boyfriend ordering me to wreck your arse.  _ But had also been forced to concede the point. He’s stronger than he’s ever been in his life, more fit. His stamina on the treadmill and even cross country, has gone through the roof. He can throw a punch. He can take a hit. Mycroft can throw his body into a locked door and stand a good chance of breaking it. 

He does not enjoy doing  _ any  _ of that. But, while he has been forced to accept he’ll never achieve the sort of effortless slim grace with which his older brother was born, he can’t deny that this… this body is fine. It’s serviceable. 

And he’s reluctantly enjoying the way Greg is looking at it. 

Greg’s hand sweeps up over Mycroft’s ribs, layered over by a little more padding than there used to be, and topped with a chest that’s firmer than Mycroft thought he’d ever have. 

“You—” Greg clears his throat. “Sorry, I… Genuinely, I don’t know what to say. You’re a fucking masterpiece.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

“You look like a bloody bad ass, Mycroft, what the  _ hell?” _

This makes Mycroft laugh. “Oh, my god,  _ shut up.”  _

“You’re a _man._ A sort of um… _solid one.”_

“Yes, and the minute I stop spending more time than I have  _ ever _ desired in a gym, it will all turn to flab, and I’ll have to run constantly again. And I’ll never be… I don’t know if I’ll ever look the same again.” 

“Probably not,” Greg murmurs, fingers tracing down the center of Mycroft’s chest. “You’re  _ meant  _ to be a little bit softer than this, you know. I’ll be happy to see that version someday.”

Mycroft feels a tremor of hope. “Someday?”

“Yeah, of course.” Greg leans down, kisses the points of his clavicle, then up the side of his neck. “Someday.” He smiles against Mycroft’s lips. “You know, when you’re old as me and have spent some time behind a desk getting all soft.” 

Mycroft laughs, suddenly thrilled by the entire concept. “Yes? And you’ll be… hm. In your sixties. Or so. I wonder if your hair will be totally silver.” 

“Ugh,  _ my sixties.  _ I’ll be in my early seventies, thanks very much.” Greg buries a pained groan in a kiss. “Awful to even contemplate.”

“You’ll be extremely handsome, of course,” Mycroft says. “Like Christopher Plummer.”

“Oh, if wishes and dreams were peaches and cream.” Greg laughs and kisses him again. “But I’ll feel young, I’ll bet. With my sexy younger man to keep me that way.”

Mycroft’s heart thuds in his chest. “Are you being serious?” He turns his face out of the kiss, and presses a hand to Greg’s chest. “Or are you being funny?”

Greg leans up and away enough to show Mycroft his face, his soft, serious eyes. “I’m being serious,” he murmurs. “I mean, this is always going to be up to you. You steer this thing, love. But I’m going nowhere.” 

“Even if I have to be away again? Or for longer?”

“Even then.” 

Mycroft swallows. “Even if I’m genetically predisposed to going a bit jowly with a receding hairline?”

Greg  _ laughs at him,  _ and takes the outraged smack to his upper arm with grace. “Even then,” he repeats.  _ “God.”  _

Mycroft yanks at Greg’s shirt, unsure how he missed the removal of the suit jacket. “Please get naked,” he says. “I need you.”

  
  


***

  
  


Later, once Greg has opened him up rather more than Mycroft felt was necessary, Mycroft decides that if Greg’s going to be a bit of a fetishist about the changes to his physique, Mycroft may as well have fun with it. 

When he flips them, smoothly rolling Greg onto his back and pinning his arms, Greg gasps and pants and goes wide-eyed. “Holy fuck.”

  
“If you were… a  _ bad guy,”  _ Mycroft inflicts a drawling American accent on the words, “I’d choke you unconscious at this juncture.”

Greg’s hips roll, his cock pressed just perfectly between Mycroft’s cheeks. “Oh, please don’t. I’m begging for mercy.”

Mycroft laughs and kisses him quiet, and then, without finesse or preamble, shifts himself up, reaches down to hold Greg where he wants him, and sinks down onto the thick, hard prick he’s missed so much. 

“Oh,” Greg grunts. “Oh, baby,  _ yeah.”  _

“Hold me?”

Greg holds him, wraps arms around him and rolls up into him, Mycroft’s knees tucked tightly to either side. Mycroft sighs and moans into Greg’s neck, intoxicated by the familiar scent of him. 

“Love you,” Greg says roughly, one hand slipping down to feel where their bodies meet. “My sweet, gorgeous boy, I love you so fucking much.”

And Mycroft shakes. He can only whisper, a bit shyly, “I love you, Daddy.” 

Greg shudders. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s me. I’ve got you. Always, love, always.” 

Mycroft rocks on top of him, unconcerned about his own erection. He’ll come or he won’t, he doesn't care. It’s not the point. All he’s wanted for months is this. All he’s needed is the warm body under his, the rough, loving voice in his ear. Mycroft can feel himself melting into Greg’s arms, his control over himself slipping. He moves, uses the muscles in his belly and thighs to grind down and shove up and seek the right angle. But he can’t track it, and doesn't want to. Greg’s hands are rough and tight on him, guiding and gripping, clenching when it’s just right. 

“Is this all you need?” Greg nips at Mycroft’s ear. “Just like this?”

“Yes,” Mycroft gasps, eyes fluttering shut and lips pressing on any skin they can reach. “Just this.” 

“Want me to come inside you?”   


_ “Yes,  _ god,  _ please.”  _

“Hang on, then.”

Mycroft thinks to tighten his hands at Greg’s shoulders, to hold his thighs still, stay right where Greg’s hands are holding him, spreading him open. Greg’s feet plant on the mattress and he fucks up into him hard, fast, a rhythm with a goal in mind. 

“Gonna suck you,” Greg growls into Mycroft’s ear. “After. Wanna taste you.”

Mycroft can only cling and cry out, shivering and twitching and trying not to interrupt the steady pound into him. “So good,” he hears himself say, a little drunkenly. “Daddy, so good, want it— want it so bad.” 

Greg shouts, stills, jerks into him. “Mycroft!” His arms go tighter, fingers probably leaving bruises, as he holds Mycroft against him and comes, a pulsing wave of helpless thrusts as he does. 

After that, he’s a little clumsy, but determined, as he rolls them, shoves Mycroft down to the mattress and crawls between his thighs, fingers sliding in to make obscene noises as they work inside and find his prostate with little trouble. Mycroft wavers and trembles, and then sucks in a sharp breath as his cock is engulfed by a hot, wet mouth. 

He’s never felt this right. Not even before he left. This is it. This is what he needs. He knows it now, deep beneath his skin. He’s been incomplete without it. 

Mycroft feels real and powerful. He feels helpless and alive. 

He feels loved. 

  
  


***

  
  


Later, he keeps turning things over and over in his mind. 

The day Mycroft settles everything with the solicitor and orders the Belgravia house to be closed for now, Greg takes him to the Tate and they wander and chat and hold hands and kiss surreptitiously everywhere they can manage it. And still, Mycroft thinks. 

_ You steer this.  _

_ This is always going to be up to you.  _

_ I’m going nowhere.  _

“You okay?”

Mycroft turns from the violent unreality of a piece by Paula Rego, and gladly abandons the knot of fear twisting his stomach. “Fine,” he says, and relaxes as his hand is taken. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  
  


***

  
  


He sees Sherlock before he goes, at the centre in Kent. Greg offered to go along, and Mycroft had been tempted, but there are some things he needs to do - should be able to do - on his own. 

Sherlock looks fantastic. Clean and well-fed, no dark circles, no chapped and bitten lips, his hair cared for and glossy. 

“Why doesn't  _ my  _ hair do that?” Mycroft complains, passing the cigarette over. “Why did you get  _ all  _ the good genes?”    


“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snaps. “You obviously did. You’re decent looking, have an intellect sharp enough to cut - possibly physically as well as metaphorically, let me know if you ever figure it out - and no tendency toward addiction beyond your mild thing about chocolate. Fuck off, Mycroft. Don’t be such a _ baby.” _ He drags on and then hands back the cigarette. “Also… thank your sugar daddy for me.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and wills himself not to blush. “Don’t be a prick.” 

“I wasn’t.” Sherlock waves off the last bit of cigarette. “I like him. He’s… good. Too old for you, but. Who am I to judge, hmm?”

Mycroft studies his brother’s profile, all pale and angular and wind-swept out here on the terrace. “Sherlock?”

“Mm?” 

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened to you?” 

Sherlock turns to him in shock, unable to stop himself in time, unable to maintain his usual indifferent calm. “What?”

“Something happened,” Mycroft says, stubbing out the ember. “I know it did. Mummy and Daddy, too. Something happened to  _ all  _ of you, and you think I can’t tell. But I can. And I’m  _ not  _ a baby. You should tell me, someday. You should let me carry some of it with you. I’m strong enough.”

Sherlock blinks, and if he could, he’d have done it with a second vertical set of lids, like the amphibian he wishes he was. “What the  _ hell _ am I supposed to say to that?” 

Mycroft stares back at him, unblinking. 

“You…” Sherlock sighs, looks away, but doesn't hide the small, barely-there smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You have what none of the rest of us have, you know.” 

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow. “Red hair.” 

“A heart,” Sherlock corrects, effectively knocking the air right out of Mycroft’s lungs. “At least… a functioning one. Still intact. Somehow.” 

“Sherlock—” 

“Let Lestrade take care of it for you.” Sherlock shoots him a rare, genuine smile. “I’ll try not to break it from now on. Sorry I… Sorry I’m so shit.” 

Mycroft takes a little side-step closer, so their shoulders almost brush. “You aren’t shit,” he says gently. “Just a bit of a drama queen.” 

And  _ that _ makes Sherlock laugh, which nearly knocks Mycroft over. 

He hasn’t seen his brother laugh in at least ten years. 

  
  


***

  
  


“I don’t want to go back,” Mycroft moans into the pillow. 

Greg, working a line of kisses down his spine, pauses, makes this kiss a little sweeter. “I don’t want you to go. But you’ll be upset if you don’t. I know you don’t want to quit.”

“No,” Mycroft sighs. “I don’t. I can’t.”

Greg sighs into the dip at the base of Mycroft’s back. “You can if you want to, but I’m not going to remind you, lest I sound like I’m trying to convince you not to leave.”

Mycroft gets his knees under him. “Are we being depressing or are you eating me out? I can’t tell.”

For that, he gets a delicious, stinging smack to the arse, and the application of tongue. 

Mycroft grins into the pillow. 

He doesn't want to go, but he’ll be back soon. 

He can’t wait. 

  
  


***

  
  


And then he returns to Virginia. 

“Hey!” Jim slaps him heartily on the shoulder, a gesture Mycroft will never get used to. “Don’t bother unpacking.”

Mycroft whips his head around to follow the other man’s path down the hall. “What?”

“Venezuela. I’m going, and McCurdy says you are, too. Welcome to the show, England.”

Mycroft sags against the wall. 

_ Fuck.  _

  
  


***

  
  


“Hey,” Greg says, all sleepy and soft. 

Mycroft grips his mobile so tight he’s worried he’ll break it. “Hi,” he manages. “Hello.”

“Baby? What is it?”

“I’m going to be gone awhile,” Mycroft manages to say. “Not too long. A few weeks. But I won’t have my mobile.”

There is a silence. 

“So this is how it is, then,” Greg murmurs.

“Yes,” Mycroft replies, a little more harshly than he meant to be. “It is.”

“Don’t you dare—” Greg hauls in a breath. Mycroft can picture the clench of his jaw. “Don’t. Get hurt. Please.”

“I’ll be fine,” Mycroft says, and he nearly believes it. “I’ll be in an office. I’ll be. I’ll be a drone. Don't glamourize it, you think I’m James Bond but I’m very much not.” 

“Where, though?” 

“I can’t say. Somewhere with some… problems. Somewhere the Americans want their hand in.”

Greg sighs. “Fuck.”

“That’s what  _ I  _ said.” 

Mycroft is relieved to earn a laugh. He leans heavily on his hand, pressed against the wall of the office he shares with three other junior agents - all on loan from their home countries. He’s the only one in, and so he feels free to have a mild breakdown on the phone. 

“How much longer will you be this far away?” Greg asks. “I’m not complaining. I know that even after you get back here, you’ll have to… go. Sometimes. But how long til I get to at least help you pack? Kiss you goodbye?”

“Not long,” Mycroft murmurs. “A couple of months. As soon as I can manage it. I’ve done well here, and I’m not actually under any contract. I can go whenever it’s prudent to do so. After this, I might be able to leverage the experience into something at home.”

Greg sighs again. “Don’t you want to go back to uni? You still have those degrees to finish, you know.” 

“Greg…”

“Sorry. Sorry, okay. When do you leave?”

“Three days.”

  
  


***

  
  


The less said about the weeks in South America, the ambush, the kidnapping, the Colombian border, and Mycroft’s desire to never speak to another fucking American again, the better. 

He goes home. Sherlock is there to meet him, because Sherlock still has an active clearance.  _ Somehow. _

“Does Greg know?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not yet. I didn’t think it would be fair to give him half-truths and then tell him he couldn’t come with me to the bloody secret airstrip. My people skills aren’t the sharpest, but Lestrade’s puppy eyes get even to me. How ever do you cope?”

Mycroft laughs, then chokes on the pain lancing through his ribs as Sherlock helps him into the back of the car. “Oh, hello, Carson,” Mycroft says to the driver. 

“Mister Holmes.” 

Sherlock slides into the car with him. “I’m taking you to Lestrade now. Do  _ not—”  _ He holds up a hand. “Do not argue. Sussex is too far, the Belgravia house will be frigid and completely unstocked, and my current flat is… not ideal.”

“You’re clean, though,” Mycroft says, letting his head loll back against the leather seats. “You look good.” 

“Yes, I’m expecting my modeling contract to come through any day,” says Sherlock drily. “I’m clean. I’m fine. I’ll show you the lab space at St. Bart’s sometimes, and you can pretend to care about chemistry. It will be a rollicking good time.”

“And you didn’t tell Mummy?” 

“Do I look like an idiot?” 

The car moves smoothly through the late-night London streets. 

Mycroft shifts, trying to get comfortable. No easy feat with two stab wounds and a broken arm. 

“I’ve been in touch with Uncle Rudy’s contacts,” Sherlock says eventually. “The ones who will speak to me, anyway. Word is the home office is in an uproar over you. The chief of the security services was fit to be tied. You weren’t meant to be in the field to that extent. What the hell were the Americans thinking?”

“I look like a somewhat fit accountant,” Mycroft says drily. “I have an accent, and a poker face that I’m told is frighteningly immovable. Rather convenient that instinctual terror translates to stone cold indifference on our faces, don’t you think? I didn’t do too badly, honestly. If there hadn’t been a leak, if they hadn’t thought they could kidnap an American agent to use as leverage, I would have been fine. And still, I could be dead. I believe my American superior said I could sell sawdust to a lumbermill. I talked my way out of a bullet. I would like some credit for that.” 

“I don’t doubt it that you handled yourself well,” Sherlock says. “But they’re bandying about words like  _ national treasure, _ Mycroft. Uncle Rudy certainly sold your best features, didn’t he?”

Mycroft sighs. “You make me sound like a prize pig gone to auction.”

Sherlock tsks at him but falls quiet for a while. 

Mycroft chews his lip. Greg is going to be so angry when he sees the bruising. 

“You are wasted as an agent,” Sherlock says softly. “Uncle Rudy wanted you to start the way he did. He wanted to stave off accusations of nepotism while still leaving behind something he could call a legacy. He was wrong.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to protest. 

“I know you idolized him, Mycroft, but  _ believe me,  _ the man could be wrong,” he snaps. “And he was wrong about this. You are  _ not _ him. You are sharper and faster - in another league, and he knew it. He loved you, but don’t think that he fully understood you.”

That hurts, sharp and cold in Mycroft’s chest. “How could you say that,” Mycroft choked. 

“He didn’t,” Sherlock says, gentler now. “It’s alright, Mycroft. He was doing his best for you, he was atoning for— well, for mistakes he made in his life. He over-corrected.” 

“I don’t see how any of this matters,” Mycroft says, staring numbly out the window. 

“He should have let them court you. They’re going to do so now. They’re going to make you offers,” Sherlock says. “Consider them.  _ Carefully.  _ And then ask them for what  _ you _ want. You have the upper hand. You will  _ always _ have it. You are a different species, Mycroft. Uncle Rudy didn’t want an awareness of that impeding you. He didn’t want you to turn out like… like me. Inept and damaged and unable to fake it. Inhuman. But he also did you a disservice, because you have been operating as if this country’s security services are your de facto masters. Listen carefully: they are not. Rather the opposite.” 

Mycroft winces. “You make it sound as if I could rule the world. As if I already do.” 

“Eh,” Sherlock wavers his hands back and forth in an exaggerated  _ so-so  _ motion. “The  _ world _ is a bit dramatic. You’re twenty; pace yourself. England, though, that’s a good place to start.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up.” And then, “You aren’t inhuman, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hums, but says nothing further on the subject. 

  
  


***

  
  


The anger is quick to show and quick to leave Greg’s eyes. Sherlock had called from the car, idling at the kerb:  _ Lestrade. I’m downstairs. I have something for you. But you must promise to remain calm.  _

Mycroft gets out of the car with Sherlock’s help and only just holds himself back from falling into Greg’s arms, instead taking a calm step forward, knowing that the street lights are illuminating the purple smudge of bruises around his broken nose. That the shaved side of his head is visible, along with the six stitches from a laceration incurred when he hit his head on a stone step (when he fell after a fist broke his nose for him). 

“Jesus  _ fucking—”  _ Greg steps forward and catches Mycroft’s elbow.

It’s like he’s being handed over, literally, from Sherlock to Greg. Sherlock’s hands leave him as Greg’s take him. Mycroft tries not to show his irritation at being treated like their  _ charge.  _

Then Greg is reeling him in close and Sherlock is warning him to watch Mycroft’s sides. He feels Greg convulse in furious horror when the words  _ broken ribs, shallow stab wounds,  _ are uttered. But he also feels an impossibly gentle hand cradling the back of his neck. 

Mycroft doesn't know when he closed his eyes, but now they are too heavy to open again. He can’t parse what Sherlock and Greg are saying to each other. He’s sure that some time in the future when he’s less tired and concussed, he’ll experience some strange cognitive dissonance over the fact that they  _ know each other _ now. But he can’t muster the energy for it now. 

He lets himself shut down, at last. He’s safe. 

He’s home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like the dog days are over, huh? Thus shall commence many months of bliss for our heroes. *happy sigh*


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A happy late night or morning surprise! I love you guys!!!

“You’ve been with your brother.”

The look Mycroft shoots him tickles Greg right down to his bones. “I’m a detective, you realize, and you taste like cigarettes. So, how is Sherlock?”

“In a snit,” Mycroft replies, hanging his jacket by the door and following Greg into the kitchen. “He’s being evicted from the flat in Montague Street, for once through no fault of his own. The landlord is selling.” 

“He’d better not think he has any claim to our sofa. I’ve seen what a slob he is,” Greg grumbles, squatting to check on the pizza in the oven. “You know I think I finally mastered pizza crust. Only took me fifteen years of halfhearted baking and a marathon of Bake-Off with you to motivate me.” 

_“Our_ sofa?”

Greg smirks at his own reflection in the oven door, then straightens with the familiar pop of his bad knee. “What’s mine is ours,” he drawls. “That’s how the saying goes, right?”

“And what about what’s mine? Is that _also_ ours?”

“Oh, god, do not start.” Greg huffs and goes for the wine, determined to pour a glass and shove it into Mycroft’s hand. “I don’t want to have this argument again.” 

“It is patently ridiculous for us to be stacked into this flat like we are,” Mycroft says for the hundredth time that month. “I have an entire house we could be living in, and an obscene bank account balance that could buy something less chi-chi if you insist. And yet—” 

“And yet I like my flat,” Greg says, keeping it easy and breezey. “Here, drink this.” 

Later, eating slices of homemade pizza off of paper plates in the lounge, curled up with a film on in the background, the guilt creeps in. 

“I don’t want to keep you from… if you want to move, you should.” 

Mycroft chews and doesn't look at him. Greg waits him out, watching his profile, his nose now slightly crooked from the break, the sharp angles of his jaw. He’s lost weight. Recovery had made him depressed, unwilling to eat enough. But he’s out of the cast now, and his ribs are healed. He’s moving about on his own, independent and starting to relax again. Greg thinks this sudden wild hair about the two of them moving to some fancy place will pass now that things are normalizing. 

After a while, Mycroft sets his empty plate on the coffee table and turns sideways, pushing away from Greg so that he can face him. Their legs tangle, but Mycroft keeps his hands to himself, steepled by his chin. “You think I should move?”

“Do you _want_ to move?”

“No,” Mycroft says, slow and a bit mocking, as if he’s talking to a five year old - and not a bright one. “I didn’t ask you to ask me a question, I asked you if _you_ think I should move? But you never tell me what you think, so fine. Let’s try something else. Do you want me to leave?”

_“What?”_

“Well?”

“Of course I don’t.” 

“Do you expect I will simply live here with a single drawer in your dresser and half a very small closet, like your… _sex guest_ , forever?” 

Greg blinks, a bit taken aback. “Is that how you feel about being here?”

“Not all the time, no.” Mycroft clears his throat. “This is not my home, however.”

“The Belgravia house—” 

“That is not necessarily my home, either.” Mycroft levels him with an unimpressed, impatient stare. “How do you not understand this? I _love_ you.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t think that you do.” Mycroft takes Greg’s plate from his numb fingers. 

He’d forgotten he was even holding a plate. Mycroft shifts closer. 

“Why am I the one who decides if this ends or continues forever?” Mycroft asks it softly, staring down at Greg’s hands and not at his face. “Why do I have to _steer?_ Why do you… why won’t you just ask me to be with you forever? And let me say yes?”

“Because you’re—”

“Young.” 

The word falls between them with all the delicacy of a brick. Greg winces. “Well, that’s part of it. You’re just… in a different place in your life and I—” 

“Do you imagine that when I say I love you, what I mean is, _I love you, so long as my life is in no way tied to yours?”_ Mycroft finally looks up, and his eyes are… _hurt._ “Is that what you mean when _you_ say it?” 

“Baby—” 

“No, don’t _baby_ me now, _listen to me.”_ Mycroft scrubs his hands over his face. “If you asked me to never go away again, to never take a job that made me go away again, I would gladly do it. If you asked me to live in this shoebox apartment with you, both our names on the buzzer, bills in both our names, I would… _do it,_ though with great protest because _honestly it is too small._ If you wanted to get married, I would do it. Adopt a cat. A dog. Three dogs. A _human baby.”_

“Jesus Christ—” 

“I would do it.” Mycroft looks away. “Because the things you want I think I would want, too. But I don’t actually know what you want, because you never tell me. You always say it’s up to me. You just want me to be happy. You just wish I would do the things I _want_ to do. And I am. And you still won’t let me in on the big secret of what _you_ want. Because some idiotic part of you thinks it will sway me in my own decisions, and that will somehow be a problem. And when we agreed that I would not turn down opportunities _just_ because of our relationship, I wasn’t aware that it also meant you would never… I don’t know. Want _more_ with me.”

Greg’s heart races. He’s… he _really_ fucked this up. “Mycroft, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was doing that. Of course I want— I’m so— And no, to answer your question, that’s not what I mean when I say I love you.” 

“Good,” Mycroft says, a little harshly. “Otherwise I would be… _very_ upset.”

Greg huffs. He’ll always be charmed by the way the posh emotional constipation shows itself. Even when Mycroft is being his most raw and honest, _very upset_ is sometimes the most he can say about something that has clearly been hurting him, badly. 

“I’m sorry,” Greg murmurs, reaching out. It’s a relief that Mycroft reaches back and lets himself be tugged forward and into Greg’s lap. “I love you, and I’m sorry. Let me think about it? The living situation thing. Start with that. And then… I dunno. We’ll work on the rest.”

“It’s a start,” Mycroft says immediately, soft and pleased. Amazing how he relaxes so quickly. Greg feels like a complete dick for freaking him out so badly that just that little baby step was enough to calm him. “Thanks.” 

“Thank _you,_ for being very patient with me. I’m sorry I’m an idiot.”

Mycroft snorts. “Everyone’s an idiot. Take comfort in the fact that you’re one of the good ones.”

“You little brat,” Greg laughs, relief like a flood through his veins, and tackles him back, digging into his sides with his fingers. He does it extra hard because he can, because Mycroft is healed now - thank god - and because Greg needs, now more than ever, to hear the breathlessness in the laughter. 

  
  


***

  
  


“Plans for the weekend, boss?” 

Greg looks up, eyes squinting at Gregson, who’s hanging around in his doorway. “Sorry?”

“It’s Friday,” she says slowly. “And nearly quitting time. Do you have plans for the weekend?”

Greg can’t believe it. He checks the clock. After three. “Shit,” he murmurs. “Where did this day go?”

“You alright?” Gregson steps into his office, shutting the door with her. “You look a little tense.”

Greg considers her for a moment. He misses her; they were pretty good friends before his promotion, and it’s felt strange not being as friendly with her these last few years. They’ve talked a bit over pints here and there, but… “Wanna sit?” he asks. “Talk with me off the record for a minute?”

“And shirk my duties? Hell, yes.” She drops down into one of his visitor chairs. “How’s it going, Greg?”

“It’s going relatively fine, Joanna, and yourself?”

She grins. “Hey, I’ve been weird with you.”

“Really? Thought I was the weird one.”

“I was a bit jealous. Of the promotion. And it was awkward.” She wrinkles her nose. “Let’s not get into it. It’s weird that you’re my boss.” 

“Well I’m lots of people’s boss.” Greg winces. “It’s not the most fun I’ve ever had, to be honest. Donovan, boy, she’s… it’s like she lives to bust my bloody balls.”

Joanna cackles. “Yeah, well, she’s like that with everyone she likes. She’s a bit of a fan of yours. Wanted on your team pretty bad back when she first got promoted to sergeant. I think she was fairly broken up when you got sent up the ladder before she could request the transfer.”

Greg realizes he looks like a shocked guppy. _“Donovan?”_

“May be a bit of a crush there,” Joanna says with a grin. “You know, you could consider it. Now that she’s a D.I. —”

“Oh my _god,”_ Greg groans, and ignores Joanna’s snickering. “That’s so inappropriate, _stop._ Besides… I. I’m uhhh… taken. Actually.”

“Oh?” Joanna quirks an eyebrow. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Well, she’s a man.” 

Joanna laughs. “Oh my god! What! I never knew!” 

Greg shrugs. “Why would you? I was married to Bette.” 

“Well, well, well.” Joanna leans back in the chair. “So is that what has you looking all—” she waves a hand. “Squinchy? Boy trouble?”

He rolls his eyes. “Boy trouble, what are we, twelve? No, it’s… well, yes. Sort of. I sort of fucked up, gave him the wrong idea about my level of commitment.”

“What, you want to keep it casual?”

“No, the opposite. I’ve been… well, he’s… younger.” Greg tries very hard not to fidget. “A lot younger.”

Joanna’s eyebrows climb up into her hairline. “Oh?”

Greg clears his throat. “Yeah, and I guess I felt like I shouldn’t put too much expectation on him because he’s young and I’m… not.” 

Joanna bites her lip, clearly trying not to outright laugh at him. “Lestrade, you’re not _ancient.”_

“Well. I’m not _not_ ancient.”

She cracks, snorting a laugh into her hand. “Jesus, you are ridiculous. You know, most men would land some pretty young thing and just get on with taking advantage of their dewy-eyed inexperience, but not you, you bloody boy scout.” 

Greg just shrugs. “Yeah, well.” 

“So what’s the thing? What is it you want with this bloke? House in the suburbs, kids, dogs, holidays by the sea, what?”

“Ehhh.” Greg can’t help the stupid soft grin that happens when he thinks of actually saying it out loud. He picks at the curled edge of his desk calendar. “Bigger flat or a house in central London - he’s rich, don’t ask - maybe a cat. Forever and ever as long as we both shall live.” He clears his throat. Looks away. “So.” 

“Jesus,” Gregson sighs. “You’re pretty fantastic, you know that? We were all relieved as fuck when you finally gave Bette the heave-ho.” 

Greg snaps back to look at her. “What?”

“Oh yeah. What an awful twat.” She wrinkles her nose. “Seriously.”

Greg laughs. “Well, thanks for telling me, I guess.”

“You would’ve bitten my head off! You were such a bastard for a while there. That was during all that Ricoletti business, and you were a wreck and a half!” 

Greg sucks on his teeth and tilts his head in agreement. “Sorry,” he says.

“Already heard your apology years ago, I was just saying.” Joanna shrugs. “Look, Greg… just call your man, tell him you want to take him out, or even away - get out of London for the weekend, go somewhere nice. Do it up all romantic and bloody propose or whatever it is you want to do. Stop being an idiot.” 

“Well thank you, Inspector,” Greg says. “I’ll take that under advisement.” 

“Do.” Joanna stands, smacking her hands against her thighs. “Also, I really need Christmas off this year so if that helped, you know, do me a favor—” 

“I have _no_ control over the holiday rota.” Greg shoots her a look. “But I’ll talk to Eva about it.”

“Thank you!” Joanna sings it and moves to leave. “Hey, know you’re my boss and everything, but we should get a drink. A real one, no shop talk. Well, _minimal_ shop talk. Dimmock and Donovan would love it. They miss you, too.”

Greg nods. “Yeah, Jo, I will. Thanks. Sorry for being so off the radar.” 

“S’okay. We get it. Talk later.” 

Greg waves her out and drops the pen he hadn’t realized he was fidgeting in his hand. He goes for his mobile. 

**GL(3:32pm):** Hey, how did the meeting go?

 **MH(3:33pm):** Fair to middling. They’re playing hard to get. Or they don’t realize I am. Foolish of them. I’m in the car to your flat now. 

**GL(3:35pm):** Wanna do something fun this wkend? 

**MH(3:35pm):** You have to ask? What are you thinking?

Greg doesn't think, he just types. 

**GL(3:37pm):** Go to the flat, pack us a bag. Casual things. Maybe something for a nice dinner. I’ll get out of here soon, and pick you up. 

**MH(3:38pm):** Interesting… where are we going?

 **GL(3:38pm):** Dunno. You game?

 **MH(3:39pm):** YES!

Greg grins to himself and pockets the phone. He casts his eyes over his desk and nods. Right. Little bit of necessary paperwork and then he’ll sneak out an hour early. Better get to it. 

  
  


***

  
  


“I’ve had an idea,” Mycroft says as they’re throwing a suitcase and a shoulder bag into the trunk of Greg’s car. “Feel free to say no. I’ll go anywhere you want.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Paris,” Mycroft breathes, slamming the trunk shut. “There are plenty of cheap flights this evening and I have miles coming out of my ears. We would get there in an hour, quicker than driving to say, Bath. And I happen to be the owner of a flat there. I’ve never seen it, but it’s there. I have your passport.” He hands it over. “Here.”

Greg gapes at him. “Wait, you own a flat in Paris?”

“Uncle Rudy did,” Mycroft says with a shrug. “Sherlock and I both own it now, I suppose. He hates Paris, though. I haven’t been since I was small. Want to go?” 

“Paris,” Greg murmurs, turning it over in his mind. “You know what? Yeah. Let’s do it. Come back late Sunday. Or I’ll call in sick Monday, who cares?” 

“Who cares!” Mycroft agrees, and his cheeks are a little flushed, and his hair is a little windblown, and Greg has to kiss him right then and there or he’ll die. 

“Book the tickets,” he murmurs against Mycroft’s lips. “I’ll drive.” 

“I’m paying for the tickets,” Mycroft says with authority. 

Greg shrugs. “Fine.”

_“Fine?”_

“Fine.” Greg meets his shocked expression with a cool smile, a casual air of ease. “Whatever you want, _darling.”_

Mycroft sticks out his tongue, but he’s already doing things on his mobile. “I have a private plane, too,” he says, in his snippiest, brattiest voice. “Just so you know. I’m simply very _carbon-conscious.”_

“Rich brat,” Greg says affectionately, and scrubs a hand over Mycroft’s hair to mess it up even more. “Get in the bloody car.”

  
  


***

  
  


There’s a thing that happens to Mycroft’s face, and Greg has come to understand that it means he’s gone fully soft around the edges, as sweet as he gets. It means he’s calling Greg _Daddy_ in his head, and not just out loud because it’s hot. Greg has managed to make him look like that outside of sex maybe twice, and it was mostly an afterglow thing. 

In Paris, Mycroft is like that nearly the entire time. 

“You’re good?” He checks, slipping up behind Mycroft at the massive, open shutters that look out on the picturesque little street below, the pretty rooftops and the gorgeous view beyond. It’s early, and chilly in the window, so Mycroft has dragged the duvet with him off the bed. 

“Very good,” he says softly, blissfully. “Come inside the blanket with me?”

Greg lets him arrange them, draping the fluffy blanket over their shoulders. He turns his body in, curls an arm around Mycroft’s waist. “This place is lovely.”

“Isn’t it?” Mycroft sighs happily. “Let’s move here and abandon London.”

Greg chuckles into Mycroft’s warm neck. “Sure,” he says. “Love to.” 

He _would_ love to. The Paris flat is nothing like the house in London, or what Greg has heard of the crumbling estate. It’s three rooms, not including the loo. A big gorgeous bedroom, a receiving room, and a kitchen. Mycroft had described it as part of his Uncle’s _bohemian phase._ Apparently some time in the 50s. If Greg ever wanted to disappear from his life in London, this is where he would want to go. Hands down. He’s only been here for eight hours, and still. 

“DId you sleep enough?” He asks eventually, nibbling little kisses up under Mycroft’s ear.

“Mmm, five hours.” Mycroft shrugs. “We can nap later. I’m awake. I feel fine.” He turns inthe warm cocoon of the duvet. “Take me back to bed?” 

“Whatever you want, baby.” Greg’s already walking him backwards toward the open pocket doors leading to the ginormous bed. “All I want is you.” 

“Mm?” 

“Mm.” Greg winks at him and drops the duvet to the floor, uses firm hands on Mycroft’s hips to arrange him up against the pillows. “You gorgeous thing, look at all these little marks I left on you last night.” 

When he presses a thumb against a livid purple mark high on the inside of Mycroft’s thigh, Greg is rewarded with a sweet, breathy little moan. 

“Hurts?”

“Yes,” Mycroft whines. “It’s good.”

Greg bends his head to suck at the bruise, stopping and soothing it with his tongue when Mycroft’s sounds go a little higher pitched. “Oooh, that one’s gonna last a while.”

Mycroft hums happily, hooks a leg over Greg’s shoulder and urges him up with his heel. 

“Did you need something?” Greg asks, teasing, letting his fingers seek out other bruises, like the one high on his hip bone. 

Mycroft shudders and moans and nods, but seems unable to say much. He licks his lips prettily and bites them even moreso. 

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Greg urges, mouth trailing hot up Mycroft’s thigh. “You want my mouth? Here?” He presses his lips with just the barest bit of pressure to Mycroft’s balls, breathing hot there. “Or here?” A kiss to the base of his shaft. 

“N-no?”

“No? S’that a question?”

Mycroft shakes his head, and his fingers twist in the sheets. “Let me,” he gasps. 

“Let you?” 

“Let me give you… what _you_ want.” 

“What _I_ want?”

“Mmhmm.” 

Greg moves up, taking Mycroft’s leg with him and pressing it up, wrapping it round, high on his own waist. He settles there in the ‘v’ of Mycroft’s spread legs, and rolls slowly against him, the sticky head of Mycroft’s cock kissing against his own. “You wanna know what _I_ want?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Greg murmurs, drawing it out. “You’re angling for something, I can tell. Tell Daddy what it is.” 

Mycroft shudders and twitches, hips shoving up a little. His eyelashes flutter, and Greg can tell it’s _partly_ affectation but not entirely. “I don’t know.” 

“You do know.” Greg bites gently, no sting in it, at the hinge of Mycroft’s jaw. “You just don’t want to say it.” 

“That’s not—” Mycroft squirms. “That’s not true. I— I want to be good for you, let me be good for you, I’ll do anything you want, just use -” He cuts himself off in a rather spectacular stuttering stop. “Um.” 

_“Oh,”_ Greg says, proud and amused and so turned on he might _faint._ “I see.” 

Mycroft is blushing furiously beneath him, eyes averted. 

“That’s the sort of mood we’re in, then,” Greg murmurs. “Well, that’s nice.”

Mycroft slides him a look. “Is it?” 

Greg grins. “It is. I’m gonna move you.” 

He swaps their positions, props himself up on the pillows. “I want your mouth,” he says easily. “And make it… _pretty.”_

“Pretty?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” 

And Mycroft does. He situates himself between Greg’s thighs, sprawled on his belly with his back displayed to the full, lithe and smooth and pale. His hips rock down against the bed, which results in an inspiring flex of his buttocks. And then there’s the way he pouts, lips teasing against the head of Greg’s cock as his slim fingers wrap loosely around it. The way he gazes up at Greg, wide-eyed and innocent, red high on his elegant cheekbones. 

Greg smiles, strokes a hand over his hair. “You really are just so lovely, baby.”

Mycroft makes a sweet little broken sound and opens his mouth, drags his lips slowly, indulgently over Greg’s cock, tip to root and then a series of sexy wet kisses back up where he licks and sucks a little, making a production of getting Greg spit-slick and desperate. 

Greg slides his hand down the side of Mycroft’s face, hot to the touch, and presses his thumb against the corner of his mouth. Mycroft turns his face, sucks the pad of it between his lips, strokes his tongue over it suggestively, and then returns his focus, shifting up so he can bob his head up and down in Greg’s lap, slow, idle, sloppy sucks. His eyes fall and flutter closed, then open again, searching Greg’s face for approval. 

“That’s good,” Greg murmurs, moving his hand back to Mycroft’s hair and tangling his fingers there. “That’s so good. You’re so pretty for Daddy, so sexy. You like being good for me, don’t you sweetheart?”

Mycroft nods, the motion breaking the rhythm of his mouth. He makes a sweet, happy little sound. 

Greg tightens his fingers and watches Mycroft’s shoulders come up, his hips press down, his eyes roll back. “Hmmm,” Greg pretends to contemplate his next move. “Did you like that?”

“Mmhmm.”

“So did I. Maybe a little tighter?” Greg does it, knows it hurts. 

Mycroft shudders and his mouth falls open around Greg’s prick as he moans. He drags his tongue up and breathes, his hand stroking to take the place of his lips as he writhes into the bed. 

“I didn’t say to stop,” Greg murmurs. “Did I?”

Mycroft’s eyes go wide and he moves to take him back in, to get back to it. Greg yanks him back up by the hair.   
  
“No, no,” he says, all false generosity. “By all means, if you wanted to stop.”

_“No!”_

Greg chuckles low in his chest. “I thought not.” He loosens his fingers in order to pet magnanimously at Mycroft’s face and neck, to take his chin in his hand. “It’s what you love, isn’t it? It’s what you’re good at.”

Mycroft’s face goes stunned and a little slack. “Yes,” he says, barely audible. 

“It’s what you’re good for, isn’t it?”

Mycroft nods into Greg’s hand. “Y-yes, Daddy.” 

“So?” Greg releases his face and takes his hair again. “Get to it, then. But since you stopped, since you made a mistake, I’m going to show you how I want it. Do you understand?”

Mycroft swallows. When he looks up, his eyes are wet at the corners. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

“Open your mouth.” 

Mycroft does it, and Greg hauls him forward roughly by the hair.

“Get your knees up. Put your arse in the air.” 

Mycroft scrambles to obey. 

“God, that’s it.” Greg scratches his nails a little roughly against Mycroft’s scalp, then shoves his head down, his mouth over Greg’s cock. He pushes him, not very hard, but enough to show him what’s expected of him. He thrusts up a little for good measure, and groans in appreciation when Mycroft gags and then recovers, getting his mouth tighter and letting Greg steer him. “There you go, love, that’s it.” 

Mycroft whimpers, his tongue sloppy as Greg guides him up and down. 

“You like choking on my cock,” Greg says roughly. “Don’t you?”

“Mmhm.”

“Good.” Greg holds his head still and thrusts up once, twice, shivering with each sweet little gag. “Oh, my sweet boy, you take it so well.” 

He pulls Mycroft off him after a few thrusts more, lets him breath, wipes the drool off his chin for him. 

“You good?”

Mycroft nods enthusiastically. His eyes are a little unfocused, his lips swollen and spit-slicked. His hair is a wreck. 

“You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do right now,” Greg says softly, and means it. “I love you, baby, I love how you are for me. You sweet thing.” 

Mycroft sways forward and down, trying to get his mouth on Greg again. 

Greg laughs and catches him by the shoulder. “Hang on,” he says. “Christ, you’re so eager. You’re such a little come slut, aren’t you?”

Mycroft’s face crumples and his hips rock, though there’s nothing for him to shove against for friction now that Greg has him up on his knees. “Daddy—” 

“Listen to you, you’re desperate.”

“Yes.”

“You need me to come down your throat?” Greg lays his palm over it, fingers and thumb a little rough, a little tight, not enough to interfere with Mycroft’s air, just enough to hold him. “Is that what you want.”

“Yes, yes, please let me—” 

“So filthy, Mycroft,” Greg murmurs, making sure he sounds pleased as punch about. “You’re so dirty, so fucking naughty. I bet everyone can tell, too.”

Mycroft shudders hard, his voice eked out of him in a helpless groan. 

“Yeah, I bet they can.” Greg wraps his free hand round his cock, stroking and squeezing, aiming it toward Mycroft’s lips. “Everyone knows how bad you need it. Everyone knows what a little whore you really are.” 

He’s so _red._ His face, down his neck, across his chest. Even his shoulders and his belly are flushed. 

“Daddy,” he says, trembling now, fighting his mortification and arousal all at once. “I need it, please, _please_ let me.” 

“Yeah,” Greg says, and guides him back down. “Yeah, come on.” 

Mycroft’s sounds are grateful. His hands hold tightly to Greg’s thighs, trying to hold himself steady and, Greg knows, stopping him from thrusting up into his throat again - he must be getting a little sore. Greg doesn't mind. He just uses the hand in his hair to guide, and lets himself relax into the expert motions of Mycroft’s mouth. 

“I’m so close, baby,” he says in no time at all. “So close. M’gonna give it to you, you still want it?”

Mycroft’s near-constant, quiet moans ratchet up, go enthusiastic and desperate. 

“Suck, then,” Greg instructs. “Come on, you know exactly what I need.” 

And he does, it’s true. Greg lets his head fall back against the pillows, lets his mouth fall open and his fingers go harsh in all that hair yet again.

“Mycroft—” His body goes tight and hot, out of his control. “Mycroft I— that’s it, baby, I’m gonna— “

Mycroft swallows him down, his eager, hot little sounds punching the orgasm out of him in bursts. 

“God, you’re so good,” Greg babbles, and then says a bunch of other worshipful things even he can’t track. It just spills out; it’s so _easy_ to say these things. They’re all true. His baby is _so good._

He lets go of Mycroft’s hair when it’s over, and Mycroft pulls off him gently, so as not to drag over the sensitive head, and presses his forehead to Greg’s belly. “Daddy,” he sighs. “I love you.” 

“Oh, honey, you have no idea.” Greg pets him with a shaky hand. “No idea how much Daddy loves you.” 

There’s a long, shuddery silence. 

“You ready for me?” Greg asks. “Want me to make you come on my fingers? How do you want it, sweetheart?”

And Mycroft surprises him - shakes his head. “I don’t want to. Not yet.” 

“Oh?”

“Make me wait? Make me… just make me.” 

“Come here,” Greg instructs, and Mycroft does, plastering himself over Greg and tucking in close. “I can do that,” Greg says. “Of course I can. You want me to tease you, huh? Get you almost there a couple times?”

“Oh, please yes.”

Greg smiles against his hair. “I am the luckiest fucker on planet Earth, my _god.”_

Mycroft shakes with a silent giggle against his chest. 

“I am,” Greg sighs. “Really.”

And he lets himself drift a bit, Parisian sunrise happening just over there, beyond the door, and just settles, thinking: _Greg Lestrade, this is_ actually _your life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *happy devil emoji*


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I wasn't finished with Greg just yet, so this is a short chapter from his POV again. A longer one will follow :D

Mycroft’s legs are too shaky to leave the flat for lunch. 

“This is what happens when you make me edge you for hours and then come so hard you whack your head on the bedside table.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes from his nest on the sofa in the little lounge area. He’s naked, wrapped in the duvet again, and smoking languidly from the pack of french cigarettes he had insisted on buying the night before. 

_ I smoke in Paris,  _ he had said, a bit imperiously, when Greg questioned it - Mycroft hardly ever smoked unless it was with Sherlock - and refused to admit that his logic was flawed, considering he’d not been to Paris since he was ten or so. 

“Yes,” he says, a little snottily. “Thank you for reminding me, I had forgotten  _ all about it.” _

“Excuse you,” Greg growls, leaning over the back of the sofa to press his face in close. “What was that?”

Mycroft leans away, lower lip drawn between his teeth. “Uh—” 

“Don’t be a brat when I’m on my way out to get and then hand deliver you lunch to your little throne here.” Greg nips at his chin, and then at his lower lip as he releases it from between his teeth. “Be sweet to your Daddy, won’t you?”

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. Daddy.” Mycroft’s smile is soft and small, and Greg kisses it. 

“I know, baby,” Greg says, and tries to say with his eyes:  _ Don’t worry, you can be like this. Even though we’re not in bed. I like this. We can be this way the entire time, if you like. In Paris, you smoke, and I’m Daddy all day, and you eat lots of cheese and bread for lunch.  _

“Thank you,” Mycroft says against his mouth, and it’s soft and vulnerable, and Greg thinks he’s been understood. 

“I’ll be back in a few minutes. You’re okay here by yourself?”

Mycroft nods. “Hurry back, please.” 

“Promise,” Greg says, and he has to rip himself away like velcro to get the hell out of there, but he manages it. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft insists on feeding Greg bites of baguette and cheese and fruit, naked in bed. Greg submits to this, because it means Mycroft lets him feed him as well, and he pays zero attention to how much is going in his mouth, and Greg fucking loves it when Mycroft just enjoys himself for once. __

They have wine in a bottle by the bed and no glasses, taking turns drinking out of it and then kissing, wine flavored and a little stupid, dissolving into giggles because Mycroft has now slipped into a rather punch-drunk mood, and Greg is getting a contact high from it. 

“God,” he says, tumbling Mycroft down to the bed once all the food is gone and they’re halfway through the bottle and should probably slow down a bit. He pins Mycroft’s wrists to the mattress near his head. “Fuck, you’re so cute. You have wine stains right here.” He kisses the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, and then the other. “And here.” He licks there. “And your hair is so...fluffy.”

Mycroft laughs under him, and Greg laughs too, buries it in said hair. “I am very fluffy,” Mycroft agrees. “It’s so upsetting. I always wanted pretty hair like Sherlock.”

“You do have pretty hair.” Greg says seriously. Pretty hair and skin-” he kisses down the pale column of Mycroft’s throat. “And little freckles.” His favorite freckle is in fact just to the left, in the little hollow above his collarbone. He kisses that. “And pretty hands.” He squeezes them in his own, threading their fingers together. “And this mouth.” Greg hovers over that, licking his own lips. “So pretty, baby.”

Mycroft’s chest moves quickly with his speeding breath. “You’re so good to me.”

“You deserve it.” Greg kisses him, a little sip of a kiss, and rubs their noses together, and kisses him again. “I want to take you out to dinner tonight. I want to be with you in Paris. Not just in this room. We can come right back here and stay in bed til tomorrow night if you want. But I didn’t suggest a weekend away just for this. Is that alright?”

Mycroft nuzzles back, sweet and soft and so fucking precious it takes Greg’s breath away. “Yes, of course,” Mycroft murmurs. “Whatever you say, Daddy.”

Greg sits up, picks Mycroft’s hands up off the sheets and pulls him up by them, guides his arms around Greg’s neck and holds him close and tight, kisses him deep and wet, kisses him until Mycroft’s squirming in his lap and gasping into his mouth. 

Mycroft reaches for the wine, tips the bottle to Greg’s lips and then takes a swig himself before he tries to pour some out onto their skin, succeeding partially before Greg shouts and snatches it away, laughing and tackling him down all over again, licking rivulets of expensive French wine off Mycroft’s belly and chest. 

_ No, seriously. This is your life.  _

  
  


***

  
  


Dinner is quaint and softly lit by tea lights. There is music and low chatter. It’s intimate. Greg loves this, and he can see that Mycroft does too. There is nothing fancy about it, but it  _ is  _ nice. There’s something a little magical about it. Maybe it’s just because it’s Paris. Paris is  _ Paris, _ even though it’s just a city. Greg feels like he’s been in a film since the second they landed, really. A little out of it, a little like he can’t catch his breath. 

_ A bout de souffle.  _

“You know,” Greg says, “I don’t read French very well. I can speak it enough to get by, of course, or my Nan would have murdered my dad. But I never got the hang of it well enough to read it. Order for me, sweetheart? I trust you.” 

Mycroft wrinkles his nose at him. “Do you? I could decide to be a little naughty and order you something really strange.”

Greg clicks his tongue. “And after I was so  _ very  _ nice to you today.”

“That  _ is  _ true,” Mycroft concedes. “Very well, leave it with me.”

Soon they have more wine, more bread, and their orders have been placed after Mycroft has what Greg can tell is a very cheeky conversation with their server. 

“What was that about?”

Mycroft smirks. “She speaks English, of course.”

“Oh,” Greg glances around. “Well, I’m an idiot.”

“No,” Mycroft kicks him under the table. “I told her it gets you hot when I order for you.”

Greg whips back to gape at him. “No,  _ really?” _

“Yes,” Mycroft giggles. “Sorry. She thought it was cute, if that helps.”

Greg loves him,  _ Jesus, _ he’s so done in. 

Before long they have more food in front of them. Some too-light looking ceviche thing for Mycroft, and the most sinfully good scallop risotto for Greg, who insists Mycroft eat several bites of it. Mycroft does it, but Greg suspects it’s only because he loves being fed forkfuls across the table in front of all and sundry, his eyes going lidded and lovely in the candlelight, his face going softer with every bite. 

“Let’s get dessert,” Greg murmurs as their second bottle of wine is brought to the table. “Split it with me?”   


Mycroft agrees easily, his body relaxed in his chair, his hands toying with everything in reach - his sleeves, the tablecloth, the silverware, his napkin. Not nervously, just a tactile scan of his surroundings with his fingertips. Greg has learned that this is a happy, tipsy Mycroft sort of thing. He forgets not to fidget, forgets not to seek out different textures. He once told Greg that he was rather compulsive about it as a child, until a tutor quite literally smacked the habit out of him. 

Greg loves watching Mycroft touch things. 

He makes Mycroft crack the créme brûlée, because Greg guesses, and is happy to be right, that it’ll satisfy him and make him smile the sweetest of all his smiles. 

“Hey,” Greg murmurs, feeling like now is definitely the time to do this. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” 

Greg nudges their feet together under the table. “Would you like to live together? Permanently?”

Mycroft pauses, his spoon poised over the little ramekin, and blinks at him. “Yes,” he says softly. “Of course I would.”

“I should have asked you that when you came home in the first place.” Greg wants to reach across the table, hold his hand, but Mycroft looks a bit like a skipping DVD, frozen in place. “Sorry I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking. And then I was thinking in all the wrong ways. But I want to live with you, you know. Did you know? You’re not at my flat just because it’s convenient or necessary.”

Mycroft sets down the spoon. “I do know that,” he says. “I think I do.”

“Well, I think we should find a place that suits us both. That… that works for us. Whatever that means. We can get into the money later, but I promise not to be an idiot about it. I just, I want to do this. I want to  _ be  _ with you.” 

“Oh,” Mycroft says, a little choked. “Well. I want to be with you.”

“Good.” Greg grins at him. “Okay.”

Mycroft nods, visibly swallowing. “Okay.” 

Greg holds out a hand, and Mycroft takes it. “Also I want to get a cat.”

That’s what makes Mycroft cry, for some reason. Not too noticeably, of course, they’re both still terribly British, but he has to look away and sniffle, then use his free hand to dash away the tears. “Really?”

“Yes, baby. We can go find someone to dote on as soon as we find a place. Okay?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, nodding furiously. “Yes, please, I want that.” 

“I love you. Are you okay?”

“I’m just—” Mycroft averts his eyes to the ceiling, blowing out a long, steadying breath as his cheeks go red with the effort of keeping it together. “I’m so happy.” 

Greg lifts their hands from the table and kisses his knuckles. “Good. Me, too.”

  
  


***

  
  


Greg doesn't know how he’ll look anyone in the eye come Monday, or maybe Tuesday the way things are going, when he goes back to work and gets asked about his weekend at the coffee and tea station. 

Mycroft has turned to honey under Greg’s hands since they arrived back at the little flat after dinner. Greg has never seen him quite like this. This is not the shy, eager young thing who had never fucked anyone he was actually attracted to before. Nor is it the little sex kitten who had made Greg worry, for a bit, that he had created a monster. And it’s not the man who has been a little unsure lately. 

This is…

Mycroft has basically gone entirely malleable, so soft and relaxed and willing that it takes nothing to prep him, and everything flows like liquid between them. Greg lays him out, strokes inside, and has to guide Mycroft’s arms up and around him, has to nose under his chin to tilt his head back and kiss his jaw and throat. 

“Love you,” Greg murmurs all over his skin, over and over. “Love you, love you, love you.”

And Mycroft seems to be speechless, seems to be able only to sigh and moan and cry out. Things get messy and a little clumsy, but it’s  _ good,  _ it’s just a constant climbing pleasure and pressure, every move a mindless way to chase it. Greg hauls him up into his lap, and they grind together, Mycroft clinging to him and whimpering into his mouth. They fall back again and roll and push and pull until it’s almost a wrestling match, and then it liquefies all over again.

In the end, Greg’s behind him, spooned up to his back, an arm hooked under Mycroft’s leg and his mouth fastened to the soft skin just below his ear, sucking hard as Mycroft finally comes, cock untouched and swaying against his belly. He’s a mess by the end, dripping, sweating and crying a little, and it’s when Greg realizes that Mycroft has been chanting  _ Daddy, Daddy, Daddy  _ under his breath that he loses it and comes, deep as he can. 

God, maybe he’ll bring Mycroft back here when he proposes. And that thought makes him laugh, totally taken aback by himself, and completely sure about all of it. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he whispers again, his own relentless chant, and Mycroft turns over, right into his arms, because that is where he belongs. 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg can see Mycroft squaring himself back up on the short flight home. He reaches over, takes his hand. Leans in close to his ear. 

“Hey.”

Mycroft tilts toward him.    


“What’s a good name for a cat?”

Mycroft smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bangs fist on table* GREG! LESTRADE!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guyssssss. Brace yourself for domestic bliss.

The lab at St. Barts is dimly lit, save for the bright lamps over the workspaces. 

“What do you think?” Sherlock asks, not looking up from where he is dripping something onto a slide with a pipette. 

Mycroft grins at him while he can’t see it. “I think it’s lucky you’ve ingratiated yourself to Inspector Dimmock enough for him to introduce you to Molly Hooper. And that she has an ill-advised crush on you.”

Sherlock shams a grin. “Do go on about how irresistible I am to everyone, so much so that they just… give me things.”

“You know,” Mycroft drawls, wandering the length of the room. “You would’ve made an  _ excellent  _ sugar baby, Sherlock. You wasted your youth on heroin and cocaine. Much harder to find a benefactor past the age of twenty-five.”

Sherlock looks up from the microscope. “Are we joking about your proclivities now?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, delighted by the patently disgusted shudder around the word  _ proclivities _ . “Besides, I’m not a sugar baby. I have all I need all on my very own, as you know. Anyway, I came to see the lab and also to tell you that Greg and I are going to move in together.”

“Oh, happy days are here again,” Sherlock mutters, but he fails to put the right amount of scorn behind it. “Good for you, brother.” 

“Any luck in the flat search?”

“Some.” Sherlock backs away from the workspace and snaps off his gloves. “There’s a woman I know from that time I went to America trying to play the obedient nephew. I believe I mentioned her to you once.”

“A retired stripper,” Mycroft fills in. 

“Indeed.” Sherlock leans casually against the worktop. “She’s a Londoner, and is now living back here. Has been for a bit, but I was obviously unreachable and in no fit state to visit her anyway. She’d have been so cross with me and I didn’t need the fluttering. Anyway, she owns property in central London and has a flat to let.”

“Well, that’s wonderful.” 

“It’s not cheap.”

“Sherlock, we have plenty of money—”

“I don’t think I should live alone,” Sherlock interrupts. “I… I don’t. It turns out that living alone hasn’t been working for me. For the last decade and a half. So. Time to try something else.”

Mycroft resists the urge to clap his hands and praise him, not wanting to be tossed out of the lab already. “That’s sensible,” he says, bland as can be. “So? How does one go about finding a flatmate?”

Sherlock shrugs. “How should I know?”

“We could ask Greg,” Mycroft tries. “He can make fun of us for being overly posh and cosseted. He’ll like that.”

Sherlock gives him a twisted, sideways little smile. “You know,” he says, “it’s very telling that you like that.” 

Mycroft wills himself not to blush. “I have nothing to be ashamed of,” he says, then bites down hard on the inside of his lip. “Anyway, I’m en route to inform the chief of the security services that I’m returning to my studies and might choose to pursue my doctorate. I’m offering them my consultancy for now.” 

“Good,” says Sherlock crisply, and spins around to start gathering up more slides and to snap on a fresh pair of gloves. “Best get along, then.” 

Mycroft shakes his head at his brother’s back. “Yes,” he says, shifting from foot to foot. 

It’s at that moment, Mycroft wondering if Sherlock will tell him to get stuffed if he tells him he loves him again, that a round-faced, bespectacled man in a brown suit and a too-wide tie pops through the door with a cheerful, “Hey, Sherlock? What’s new! Good news for you!”

“Oh?” Sherlock turns from the bench. “You got permission for me to use the body for the riding crop experiment?”

“Well, you could’ve let me break it to you! I had to pull some strings, you know.” 

Sherlock waves a hand. “Yes, yes. Fantastic. I’ll be down soon. Tell Molly for me?”

“Mike Stamford,” the man says, extending his hand to Mycroft. “Sorry about him.”

Mycroft huffs. “Mycroft Holmes,” he replies. “That’s my awful brother you’re apologizing for.”

Sherlock shoots them both a look. 

“Oh!” Mike Stamford pumps Mycroft’s hand. “I didn’t know there was another one! Lovely! Sherlock, you never mentioned—” 

“Mycroft has places to be,” Sherlock intones, eyes back in the microscope. “Isn’t that right, Mycroft?”

He rolls his eyes and offers this Stamford person a tight smile. “That’s right,” he says. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Mister Stamford.”

“Doctor,” Sherlock corrects. 

“Doctor Stamford.” Mycroft moves toward the door. “Sherlock, let me know how the flatmate search goes. Let me know if you—” 

“Yes, yes!” Sherlock waves at him. “See you when I see you, brother mine.”

As Mycroft rolls his eyes and takes his leave, he hears the jovial Doctor Stamford ask Sherlock where he’s moving and when, and immediately offer to help him look for a flatmate. 

_ Sherlock making friends,  _ Mycroft thinks.  _ Curiouser and curiouser.  _

  
  


***

  
  


That night after Mycroft relates his power move at MI-6, he and Greg have celebratory chinese right out of the cartons, sitting on the floor of the lounge with a wildly inaccurate spy film playing in the background. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Greg says for the tenth time. “Seriously, you bold little thing. You’ve got them wrapped around your finger.” 

Mycroft shakes his head, gives him a gentle kick with his socked foot. “Stop, or I’ll get a big head.”

Greg leans over, gives him an exaggeratedly sloppy kiss to the side of his neck. “I’ll show you a big—”

Mycroft laughs and shoves him over. “Ugh! No!” 

“So? Now that you have your plan in place, what do you think about checking out some flats?”

Mycroft nods, picking through his noodles for another mushroom. “Yes, absolutely. And you’re not going to bring up the money again?”

“I promise,” Greg says, dead serious. “We hashed it out, it’s done, never to be revisited again.”

_ That _ had been a rather awful couple of days. They had  _ fought. _ Mycroft had nearly stormed off and never returned, and then had nearly dissolved into frustrated tears, and then had nearly thrown a wine glass. Greg, for his part, had alternated between stoic refusal to talk and stuttering insistence that he was being  _ completely _ misunderstood. 

In the end, Mycroft had tackled him to the floor, bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and said, “This is done. I’m a fucking expert negotiator and you are driving me  _ insane.  _ You pay the utilities, I’ll pay the rent, we’ll figure the rest out, for  _ fucksake  _ take my clothes off.” 

Things had been fairly simple after that, and in the morning they’d written it out with some upper limits for how big the place should be and what percentage they could each reasonably contribute to furnishing it. 

All in all, a success. 

“I’d love to be in a place for your birthday,” Greg says. “We could celebrate at home, what d’you think?”

“Yes, please,” Mycroft says, and this time he leans across for a kiss. “Oh, I just realized that I’ll be in-country for  _ your _ next birthday. That’s exciting.”

Greg shrugs. “I don’t want a fuss.”

“Too bad,” Mycroft drawls, and smirks at Greg’s endearingly shy expression. “Also, it’s an odd number birthday for me this year so I must warn you we’re going to have to suffer lunch with my parents.”

Greg nearly chokes on a dumpling. “Your  _ what?” _

  
  


***

  
  


They’re scheduled to move into the new flat a day after Mycroft’s 21st birthday, so they spend it in Greg’s lounge, which is full of boxes, discussing logistics for having some of Mycroft’s things moved out of the Belgravia house and into the new flat in St. John’s Wood in between bites of birthday cake. 

Greg’s phone pings a few times in the kitchen, and around the third, they decide to stop ignoring it. Mycroft reads over his shoulder. 

“It’s Gregson,” Greg provides, holding it up. 

**JG(8:56pm):** Holmes is on scene with??? Some guy???

**JG(8:59pm):** This poor bastard seems to like him???? Short, grey, got a limp? Who is this?

**JG(9:06pm):** Oh Christ this is going to be a real bastard of a case, Greg. And Holmes is in rare form now he has a little friend to peacock for. HELP!

**JG(9:17pm):** Not really, know you’re having a night in with the mister. But please advise on identity of SH’s new buddy when possible. Holmes fucked off and left the poor lamb here! I had to direct him to the main road. We’re in bloody Brixton!

Mycroft’s jaw is hanging open by the time he reads through it all. “What?”

“I have no idea,” Greg murmurs, already navigating to Sherlock in his contacts and flicking it onto speaker as the call rings out. 

“Yes, what is it?” Sherlock snaps, picking up just on the edge of the call going to voicemail.

“Who was with you at Gregson’s scene tonight?” Greg asks without preamble. “Please tell me you didn’t bring another homeless person with you to a crime scene Sherlock, they’re not authorized—” 

“Doctor Watson is my new flatmate,” Sherlock interrupts. There’s a bang and clatter and a grunt. “I don’t have time for this, Lestrade, I’m looking for a pink suitcase in a skip. Bye, now!”

“Sherlock—” Mycroft tries, but the call has already ended. Mycroft blinks. “Well, clearly this is a sign of the apocalypse. He  _ actually  _ convinced someone to live with him.”

“Weirder things have happened,” Greg says and deposits his mobile back onto the kitchen island. “Do we need to check this out? I know how you worry.”

“I don’t have many options at present,” Mycroft says with a shrug. “I could make a few calls, call in some favors. But it would most likely be easier and more reasonable to simply… wait and see.” 

“Hmm.” Greg shrugs. “Yeah, probably. You know, like normal people do.”

Mycroft hip checks him. “Come on,” he says. “You get to defile me in this bed one last time, and then we need to wash and pack the sheets.” 

  
  


***

  
  


The phone rings a few hours later, and then it rings again when no one picks it up. Mycroft stumbles naked from the bedroom to grab it, then answers it without thinking.

“Yes, hello? Er… Chief Inspector Lestrade’s phone, how may I… help. You.” He scrubs a hand over his eyes. 

“...sorry, this is Gregson,” says an amused woman’s voice on the other end of the line. “Is this the famous Mycroft?”

“Oh,” Mycroft says, brain coming back online quickly. “Yes, yes it is… Is Sherlock— has something happened?”

Gregson sighs. “Best go grab Lestrade, put me on speaker.”

  
  


***

  
  


They’re both disheveled and in need of a shower, but they go, careening out of the flat and into the car, Greg’s shirt half buttoned and Mycroft carrying his shoes in his hand. 

It’s all a bit over-dramatic, since they arrive on scene to find a shock-blanket wrapped Sherlock rolling his eyes at the paramedics, and a nondescript man in a misshapen jumper watching with a distinctly fond look in his eyes. 

Mycroft screeches to a halt, and Greg nearly collides with him. 

“Good  _ lord,”  _ Mycroft mutters, eyes darting over the scene, deductions coming fast and furious. 

_ Early forties, recently divorced, military service some years ago, left shoulder injury, doctor, surgeon - trauma, nerve damage, ex-wife, ex-wife, something about the ex-wife, has a gun tucked down the back of his trousers, utterly  _ besotted  _ with Sherlock, good  _ god. 

Mycroft marshals his thoughts and refrains from approaching Doctor Watson just yet, instead hurrying to his brother’s side. 

“You were nearly shot?” He demands, the seriousness of it descending over him all over again, and along with it the panic. 

“No,” Sherlock replies calmly. “I was nearly  _ poisoned to death.  _ Someone shot my would-be murderer. Do keep up.” 

Sherlock finally shakes the paramedics and jumps up from his seat on the back of the ambulance. He flicks off the foil blanket and strides off, leaving Mycroft no choice but to follow. Somewhere off to the side, Greg is conferring with Gregson and her team. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tries, “you can’t just— I wish you wouldn’t… the  _ risk—”  _

Sherlock sighs. “Please don’t mother hen just now, Mycroft, come meet Doctor Watson, just over here. John!”

Mycroft snaps his mouth shut and allows himself to be introduced. He’s certainly not going to miss his chance to meet the person cracked enough to - apparently - fall head over heels for his ridiculous brother in the space of a day.

It’s actually a rather fantastic birthday, all told. 

  
  


***

  
  


“Weirder things have happened,” Greg drawls later, his head pillowed on Mycroft’s belly in bed in the middle of the night. 

“Oh, believe me when I say that I am not at all one to judge.” Mycroft slips his fingers through the soft strands of Greg’s hair. “Maybe people like Sherlock and I need people like you and John Watson.” 

“I have no idea how to take that.”

“Well,” Mycroft says, biting the inside of his cheek. “You know. Completely unhinged.”

Greg snorts and shifts up, pressing their lips together in a soft press of a kiss. “John seems alright.”

“He’s out of his mind.” Mycroft shrugs. “Not only has he been neglecting treatment of his post-traumatic stress for years, he is recently out of a  _ very  _ bad marriage. Obviously I can’t know the particulars, but at the very least, he’s damaged.”

“Are you saying  _ I’m  _ damaged?”

“Not at all.” Mycroft kisses him again. “But I do think you must be a bit off to find me appealing upon first meeting. Especially considering the way I spoke to you when we first met. You aren’t damaged, love, you’re… just. Special. A different sort of person. Something about you isn’t like other people. So you don’t mind that I’m not like other people, either. I’m very grateful.” 

Greg rolls, shifts again, lays half his body over Mycroft’s nuzzles into his neck. “You never call me  _ love.  _ I like that.”

Mycroft smiles. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll do it more.”

“I love that you aren’t like anyone else.” 

“I love absolutely everything about you.” 

Greg sighs. “Good thing we’re gonna live together, then. Should be nice.”

“Mmm. Should be.”

  
  


***

  
  


And it is, with some small hiccups.

The new flat is furnished quickly between the two of them. Greg brings all of his electronics and gadgets, and a lovely sideboard he tells Mycroft he found abandoned on the street years ago, then paid the son of a coworker to refinish. Mycroft likes it, and it works beautifully as an entertainment centre in their new lounge. Mycroft has his bedroom set from the Belgravia house brought over for the guest room, and is a bit affected by the arrival of his uncle’s office furniture for the third bedroom. There are file boxes along with it, things Mycroft has wanted to sort through since the solicitor handed him the key to the storage unit. 

They shop for the rest online and then over the course of one too-stressful day at a store - gorgeous acacia wood pieces for the master bedroom including a pencil-post bed with a ridiculous mattress the price of which Mycroft refuses to reveal to Greg, who deserves not to wake up with an achy back; a big dining table they hope to have actual  _ people _ over to eat around - like a real couple. 

Greg doesn't react well when Mycroft says it like that, but…

“Am I wrong?” Mycroft waves a cardboard book of fabric samples. “We have been doing this for over a year, and I have yet to meet your sister! Your coworkers! And that’s  _ fine,  _ I understand, you know that I understand, but—”

“Sorry,” Greg mutters. “Sorry, sorry, you’re right. Laura’s coming around. I think.” He winces. “Maybe we can start with her. Dinner at home with my sister. If not Laura, we’ll have Gregson and your brother and the nutter he’s moved in with over for dinner. It’ll be wildly entertaining.”

Mycroft nods, refusing to look as grateful as he feels, or to apologize for saying exactly what he’s been thinking about their insular relationship. 

He likes the way they are. 

It would just help if they occasionally appeared together in front of people other than Sherlock. 

Back at the flat after the day of furniture agony, Greg apologizes and texts his sister. 

“I can’t guarantee she’ll want to,” he warns, and Mycroft can see and hear the fear in it. Greg is very worried that his sister will never accept them together. 

Mycroft is worried too, but he’s not going to say anything about it. “I’m sure she will,” he says instead. “We do have to see my parents tomorrow. Let’s focus on one excruciating family event at a time, hm?”

Greg groans and moves off toward the bedroom. They’re on a mattress on the floor until the new bed arrives tomorrow, and Greg had teased Mycroft about making him see how the other half lives. Had told him about sleeping on a blow-up mattress for a month after his divorce, and on sofas when his father first kicked him out. 

Mycroft follows, catching up and slipping his arms around Greg’s waist from behind without slowing his progress across the flat. “So,” he says, hooking his chin over his shoulder. “We’ve lived here for three days.” 

Greg tows him along until they’re in the master suite, then turns, returning the embrace with interest. “Yeah?”

“We haven’t christened it yet.” 

Greg grins. “Yeah?” 

Mycroft collapses down onto the edge of the mattress, then slides back onto it in what he hopes is an inviting pose and not a completely ridiculous flailing of limbs. “So?” He lets his legs fall open.

Greg joins him immediately, kneeling between Mycroft’s knees. “Have anything particular in mind?” 

Mycroft shakes his head, reaches out to tug Greg down by the collar. “Just you, please. Nothing fancy. Give me sweet domestic bliss sex. We’ve never done that one.” 

Greg hides a grin against Mycroft’s cheek and presses the sweetest kiss there. “I can handle that,” he says. “You know, it’ll have to be missionary. Very respectful. Very  _ committed.  _ No funny business.”

Mycroft snorts. “I said domestic, not  _ heterosexual  _ and _ boring, _ thanks. Just come here.”

Of course, they do end up naked and rubbing breathlessly and gently together, Greg held in the cradle of Mycroft’s spread thighs and Mycroft’s legs wrapped around him. Their fingers lace together and they kiss like they’ve never done this before at all, and Mycroft is shocked at what it does to him. He is a little embarrassed, actually, at how tight his chest feels, and how he almost wants to ask for even softer, even slower, just to drag it out a little while longer. 

But Greg helps him hitch one thigh higher, moves with a little more grace and purpose against him, slides his hand between them to help things along wrapped around them both, and says, “Come on, sweetheart.”

And Mycroft really wouldn’t change a thing. 

  
  


***

  
  


It hadn’t been the original plan to go straight to the animal shelter after the obligatory birthday luncheon with Mycroft’s parents, but they get into the car after all is said and done and Greg announces that they’re doing it. 

“Why?” Mycroft asks, even as his heart kicks with excitement. “Why now?”

“Because,” Greg says as he starts the car and turns it around in the driveway. “You… deserve a kitten. Several kittens, even, after that. And so do I.”

It doesn't make sense. “What do you mean? That was fine.”

Greg hits the breaks a little too abruptly. They’re only halfway down the drive. “That was fine?”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft shrugs. “They didn’t appear to care about the age difference and my father seems to actually like you. Granted, he likes everyone, but still. I consider the day a success.”

“Well…” Greg’s hands flex around the steering wheel. He stares out the windscreen and then at Mycroft, who truly doesn't understand what is wrong. “Mycroft, is it always like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like… like you just show up here like you’ve been taken out of the cabinet to be bloody admired and then put away again until the next odd-number birthday?”

_ Well, well, well.  _ “I’m rubbing off on you,” Mycroft says, stunned. “That was… observant.” 

“Sorry,” Greg says, wincing. “I didn’t mean to say it like that, that wasn’t fair of me.”

“No, it was a rather astute statement of the facts, actually.” Mycroft doesn't know what to say. “Thank you, for saying it. And yes, it is always like that. I don’t think I exist to her unless I’m standing in front of her, and I also don’t think she can contemplate what it is I do when I’m  _ not _ standing in front of her, because it would throw all of her choices under a rather harsh light.” 

Greg sighs. “It made me… angry. Which is awkward. Those are your parents, and I don’t want to dislike them. But.” 

“Just stick to my father,” Mycroft says gently. “He’s nice enough, and is genuinely oblivious to all of the more unsavory facets of my existence. You’ll like him best.” 

Greg leans across the car for a kiss. “I just want you to know that they should be very proud of you, and - I dunno - maybe they are, and just don’t know how to show it.” Mycroft makes a noncommittal sound in his throat, not convinced of that at all. “But they also owe you some apologies, and I hope you realize that. Sherlock may have been a mess, but their over-correction cost you your childhood and forced you to sacrifice a lot. You couldn’t have fully understood what you were sacrificing because they never let you in on the other options. I know you hate when I say it, but you take on too much. You are  _ too young _ to be so serious. They should have given you more room to… have  _ fun.”  _

Mycroft can only blink. “What? No - really -  _ what?  _ Fun? What do you propose I do for  _ fun?  _ Greg, I hate to break it to you this far into things, but I’m not a particularly  _ fun  _ person.” __

Greg snorts. “You  _ are _ fun. You’re fun in a really weird way, but still. There are all sorts of things you could be doing right now. Traveling, taking up odd hobbies, getting really into craft beer or collecting records ironically. That’s what most twenty-one year olds are doing.” 

“Sounds boring,” Mycroft says, and means it with his entire being. “I  _ like  _ my life.” 

“I’m glad,” Greg murmurs. “And I’m very lucky that you let me enjoy it with you. But… you don’t have to be anything for me, you know that right? Not like you have to be a certain way for them, or for Sherlock, or even like you were for your uncle.” 

Understanding dawns and Mycroft can’t help the look he gives Greg then. He knows he looks patronizing and possibly even mocking, but  _ honestly.  _ “Of course I know that,” he says. “It’s my favorite thing  _ about  _ my life: you being the only person who really knows me.” 

Greg’s breath hitches. “Oh.” 

“Take me to the animal shelter,” Mycroft demands, but it’s soft and fond. “I’m fine, I promise, but I think you’re a bit shaken. It’s alright to admit you need to pet a cat or seven.” 

Greg huffs, but tilts his head in acknowledgment. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

  
  


***

  
  


“I really can’t believe it.”

Mycroft shoots Greg an exaggerated, sunny sort of smile from his place on the floor of their lounge. It’s still not completely furnished and unpacked yet, so it’s a nice open space free of tiny nooks or crannies in which a small cat could get stuck. In his lap is a rather grizzled looking long-haired cat, and rolling around by his knee is a much more spritely little orange tabby kitten. 

“We got the cat versions of  _ us.”  _

Mycroft barks a laugh. “How did you not realize this before we got home? Of course we did. That’s the  _ point.”  _

“The point,” Greg says, “is that Fatima saw you coming from a mile away and knew to plop that absolute mess of a pile of fluff on you, and then she waited for the perfect moment to say  _ oh, and if you decide on him his little buddy will be so sad to see him go.”  _

“Right,” Mycroft agrees. “But we still could have looked at a dozen other cats. We didn’t, because the moment I saw this one—” He tickles vigorously at the orange cat’s belly. “Well. What a delightful twist of irony. It’s very on the nose, but. Come on, it’s funny. And they’re lovely.” 

Greg’s smile is fond as he drops to the floor to join Mycroft and the cats. “They’re very cute. Even the grump.”

“He’s not a grump,” Mycroft chides, stroking gently over the older black-and-white cat’s back. “His face is just made that way. Don’t insult our child.”

Greg laughs and presses a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek, which he leans into, letting his eyes close happily, tilting into the warmth. Little kitten teeth gnaw at his fingers. It’s quite perfect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the thing with the cats completely ridiculously soft and schmaltzy? Yes. Do I care? Not at all. Do y'all like it? Let's be real you probably do, because you guys are just as much of a big old sucker as me and that's why I like you!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's ya girl, back with some more unapologetic smut and unfettered fluff.

The dinner starts off stilted and painfully awkward, and stays that way straight through the main course. Laura has left her husband Mark at home to help her youngest daughter with a school project. It is just the three of them at one end of the dining room table, a painstakingly curated playlist low in the background and a picked-over dinner congealing on their plates.

Greg has lost count of the minutes that have passed since the last time someone said anything. In the last hour, they’ve covered: the weather, tube delays, what Mycroft’s course of study is, Greg’s mishap with his attempt to replace the lightbulb in the fixture in their entryway. That last one had at least had the side effect of a laugh from Laura and a little reprieve for Mycroft, who had been vibrating with tension, worried he should be saying something. 

It doesn't help that they’re both too completely freaked out to touch. Greg could do with a hand in his, or Mycroft’s knee under his palm. 

Finally, Mycroft clears his throat delicately. “More wine?”

“God, yes,” Laura sighs, and then seems to catch herself a beat too late, her eyes going wide. “I meant—” 

Greg’s wincing, trying to figure out how to put this evening out of its misery, but then Mycroft laughs, light and easy. Greg sneaks a glance at him and sees it’s genuine. 

“This is awful, isn’t it?” Mycroft asks, filling Laura’s glass to the rim with a flourish. “Let’s stop pretending that it’s not awkward. Let’s get drunk on wine and then make Greg bring us dessert on the sitting room floor. Are you a cat person?”

Greg watches, trying his best not to gape, as his sister practically  _ melts  _ in front of him, reaching for her overfull wine glass with a little smile. 

“I am a cat person, yes,” she says. “Greg mentioned you wound up with two. I suppose neither of you does anything by halves. He certainly never has, and from what he says you might actually be worse.”

“I’m a decisive person, generally, yes.” Mycroft has filled his own glass quite generously and is now holding up an empty bottle. “Would you mind, love?” He directs this to Greg and holds out the bottle. 

“Um.” Greg takes it. “Of course, yes. More of the same?”

“There are two more bottles in there,” Mycroft says. “Best bring them both. You’re a star.”

Greg does  _ not _ roll his eyes. Christ, the Holmeses can sham with the best of them. He goes to get the wine. 

When he comes back, Mycroft really has convinced Laura to sit on the floor of the lounge with the kitten - Gershwin - and a favored feather toy while the fluffy grump - Morse - looks on from his favorite armchair. The wine glasses are already half empty, and they seem perfectly fine. 

“That’s a lovely piano over there,” Laura’s saying. “You play?”

“I do,” Mycroft says. “I’m not very good.”

“He’s lying,” Greg informs her, setting the wine bottles on the coffee table and settling behind Mycroft on the sofa, his legs there for Mycroft to lean against when the wine kicks in. “He can play by ear. Has perfect pitch.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “That doesn't mean I’m technically proficient. I’m rusty.” 

“I always wanted to learn piano,” Laura says thoughtfully. “But I ended up singing instead. Voice is a free instrument.” 

“Now, she’s  _ very  _ good,” Greg says, sliding easily into two of his favorite activities: talking up Mycroft, talking up Laura. 

“He’s lying,” Laura groans. “Ignore him.” 

“Greg never lies,” Mycroft says easily. “I’m sure you have a lovely voice. I’ll accompany you, if you like.” 

“Oh god,” Laura mutters. “No, no. Maybe with six or seven more of these in me.” She gestures with her wine glass and takes a healthy sip. “Listen, Mycroft… I want to apologize to you, because I worry you thought I had some problem with you as a person, and I genuinely didn’t. I don’t.” 

“I understand,” Mycroft says. “Believe me, I do. I… my older brother is perhaps the most unconventional person alive and even he had something to say about the matter of our ages.” 

“You certainly have a way of putting things,” Laura says, accusatory but light, not judgmental or irate. “I can see why he likes you, and why you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, hm?”

Mycroft tilts his head back, a wicked grin aimed at Greg. Greg can only blink down at him, amazed at the direction this night has suddenly taken. 

“I’m not trying to be oily about it,” Mycroft says, turning his attention back to Laura. “I just… dislike talking about it. I don’t think it matters, and it feels rather cheapening to make a fuss over it.” 

“Cheapening?”

“Well, we all know what people think. What  _ you _ probably thought. There are assumptions made about Greg, and they’re not all favorable. Especially when we first met, it was a valid concern, thinking people might look on him as predatory or manipulative. Even before we met, a friend of mine once said that an older man with someone so much younger must be completely undateable, and would surely only be able to date someone so young and naive that they miss all of the red flags.”

“Lord,” Greg mutters. He’s never heard that before. 

Mycroft shrugs. “Maybe in general that is true. But it’s not, in this case, which I know you know. Also, there are people who, without any context for where I come from, would assume I’m after something. Monetary support, a meal ticket, someone to absolve me of all responsibilities. Jumping right from my parents’ home to an older man who will keep me like a pet. And that is  _ very much  _ not the case.”

Laura hums. “Yeah, I get that.” 

“Emphasizing the age difference reduces this to something transactional or fetishistic. Not that there is anything at all wrong with relationships based on those things, but that’s  _ not  _ what this is.” 

“Well?” Laura rests her chin in her hand. “What is it, then?”

Greg can’t see what Mycroft’s face is doing, but he thinks he’s just smiling at her, the sweet one Greg knows is genuine. 

Laura smiles back, slowly. “You know my concern was for you, right?”

“I do,” Mycroft says. “I promise you, I’m very happy as I am. And I promise I’m not going to run off and break his heart.”

She reaches out and touches his knee, and Mycroft’s back straightens instantly. Greg wipes at his own smile. Soon she’ll be hugging him and shaking him by the shoulders and pinching his cheeks, just like she does with Greg. Mycroft won’t know what to do with himself. 

“I had a three year old child when I was your age,” Laura says. “I didn’t think about that when Greg first told me, but… yeah, I guess you would be perfectly capable of understanding commitment. I did, or at least I learned  _ very _ quickly. 

Mycroft nods. “I do understand it.”

“Good,” Laura says. “More wine, Greg, please?”

  
  


***

  
  


Greg interrupts the loading of the dishwasher by taking a plate out of Mycroft’s hands, setting it carefully on the worktop, and then pressing him up against the refrigerator for a thorough snog. 

“Oh,” Mycroft murmurs as Greg rubs at the front of his jeans, firm and unambiguous. “Hello.” 

“You were so good tonight,” Greg murmurs into the next kiss. “You’re fantastic. I’m so lucky, and you’re so gorgeous. Perfect, sweet boy.” He knows he’s rambling, and stops himself before this gets a little too worshipful. “Come to bed, baby.” 

Mycroft relaxes into him, arms draped around his neck and hips tilting forward. “You don’t have to ask me twice,” he murmurs, tipping his face in a silent request for more kisses. 

Greg gets them through the flat in a backwards dance, moving his attention from Mycroft’s lips to his throat, murmuring about how lovely he is, how smart and gorgeous. He has a lot of half-formed thoughts about what Mycroft must be like when Greg’s not around. When he’s doing what he does for the security services, or keeping pace with some of the best minds in the country. Outpacing them. Crushing them, probably. Going by the deft way he handled Greg’s sister, turned her to putty in his hands, he must be incredible. 

And he lets Greg take care of him. He lets Greg touch him. He turns into something else when he’s with Greg. 

It’s really hot. 

It’s really,  _ really  _ hot. 

Greg tosses him down on their new bed with a bounce. God, he loves this mattress. He loves these sheets, and this stupidly luxe grey duvet. He  _ really _ loves the way Mycroft looks naked on top of all of it, so he sets about making that a reality. 

“You are a little wine drunk, sir,” Mycroft breathes as his trousers are yanked off and tossed aside. “You know how I like handsy, drunk Daddy.” 

Greg laughs, peeling away Mycroft’s shirt, vest, pants, socks. “And you know how I like you, any way I can get you.”

“Well, I’m a little wine drunk, too,” Mycroft admits. “I’m dying to be manhandled, truth be told. I was hoping for it.” 

Greg strips himself quickly, and they flow together, Mycroft’s thighs opening for him and their bodies pressing close. “You can always just ask me for it,” he says, low in Mycroft’s ear just to watch his chin tilt back and his nipples go hard when his breath ghosts hot over him. “You know I’d give you anything you wanted.” 

“Maybe I don’t want to ask for it,” Mycroft breathes. “Maybe I just want you to take it.” 

“Eager slut,” Greg whispers, then nips at his jaw. “Love you like this. Want you to let me eat you out while you suck my cock.” 

“I fucking  _ adore _ wine drunk Daddy,” Mycroft reiterates, already wriggling out from under him. “You get so wordy” 

Greg gets comfortable against the pillows and motions for Mycroft to move on top of him, his thighs straddling Greg’s chest, pretty perfect arse right there for the taking. Greg sighs in bliss. “Look at you,” he murmurs, nuzzling along his balls and then behind them. “Look at this, is this for me?”

Mycroft huffs and doesn't answer, too busy laying over him, opening his lips, and wrapping them around the head of Greg’s prick with a wanton moan. 

“So hungry for it,” Greg teases, his hands parting Mycroft’s cheeks so he can get a good look. “Greedy boy. Take more for Daddy, that’s it.” He licks a hot stripe over the tight pink hole with a satisfied hum. 

Mycroft sucks hard, shudders beautifully, and everything gets very messy very quickly. Greg takes a lot of pride in ratcheting up the sounds Mycroft makes, deep groans and desperate whimpers, choked cries and approving hums. Greg presses his thumbs into firm flesh, holding him open and indulging in getting sloppy with it. He almost loses track of what Mycroft’s doing to him, he’s so lost in his own task. But then Mycroft gets his hands into it, stroking in time with his mouth and tugging at Greg’s balls just the way he likes. Greg lets his head fall back to the pillows, licks his own fingers wet and rubs tentatively at first, waiting for Mycroft to give him permission. Mycroft’s busy for a while, choking himself on Greg’s cock and swallowing so his throat flutters at the head. 

“Yes,” he says eventually, voice rough, and then gets back to it, tongue and lips lush and hedonistic. 

Greg lets himself rock up into it a little as he works a finger inside, his other hand petting soothingly at Mycroft’s thigh. “Relax,” he soothes. “Come on, baby, you can take it.” 

Mycroft shivers and pushes back, the sweetest little sounds spilling over Greg’s cock, racing down it, hitting him in his gut. Greg knows it’s just this side of too rough, too dry. He also knows Mycroft will want a second finger. He licks around his knuckle, then down to suck one heavy ball into his mouth. 

Mycroft pulls off with a grunt. “More,” he says. “Oh, please, more.” 

“Need you to relax more, or I’ll need to fetch the lube.” Greg licks and nips, gently removes his finger and licks him soaking wet again before pressing back in. “Do you want the lube, baby?”

“No, no, no, give it to me like this.”

“Shh, shh, you’re alright.” 

Mycroft’s forehead presses hot and a little damp to Greg’s thigh as he fits his second fingertip inside. “I can take it.” 

“I’m not going to  _ hurt _ you, baby, come on.” Greg clicks his tongue. “You’re so tight. Such a pretty pink arsehole. I’d never do anything to ruin it.”

“Want it,” Mycroft says, his mouth mindless over the crease of Greg’s thigh and the base of his prick. “Want you to wreck me.”

Greg chuckles and licks at him again, gently stretching him a little more with the second finger. “Wanna fuck you so bad, Mycroft. Want to do it so hard, hold you down and take this pretty hole. It’s mine, and I can do that if I like, can’t I? I can do it dry, if I want. Can’t I?’

“Yes,” Mycroft hisses. He pants hot and heavy against Greg’s prick. “Daddy,  _ yes, _ do it, do it please.”

Greg laughs and gives him a little smack to the thigh. “Absolutely not, you absolute monster. God, you’d let me do anything.” 

“Yes.” 

Greg pushes both fingers in to the second knuckle and seeks out his prostate, his thumb pressing hard to his perineum as he does. “Let me spank this arse til it bleeds?” 

“Ohhh, god, yes.” 

“Let me tie you down?”

“Yes!” Mycroft clearly tries to rally his attention, tries to reciprocate even as he ruts down against Greg’s chest, his hand curling around Greg tightly for a moment. His grip goes slack when Greg’s fingers find their target, massaging hard. “Fuck!” 

“Let me keep you here, like my sweet little pet.” Greg delivers another little smack to his arse. “You would  _ love _ that, you spoiled brat.” 

Mycroft gives up, hands pressing to the mattress on either side of Greg’s hips. “Need you to fuck me, need it, please,  _ now.”  _

Greg twists his fingers as he pulls them out, then delivers one last wet kiss to his rim as it tries to clench down after the fact. “Beautiful,” he says, and gives Mycroft’s leg a shove. “Off.” 

Mycroft goes quickly, tumbling to the side and spreading his legs wide. “Like this?”

“That’s perfect,” Greg says, ignoring that the room is  _ slightly _ spinny - red wine really gives him the wobbles - already grabbing the lube from the drawer. “Knees up.” 

He only needs a little slick to ease the way, and he keeps it minimal, knowing Mycroft wants the edge. 

He pushes in rough, hands hard on the backs of Mycroft’s knees, folding him and tilting him so his hips are off the mattress. Mycroft writhes with that first shove in, head tossing against the bed. “Daddy—” 

“You take it so well for me, baby boy.” Greg withdraws and fucks back in, again and again, fast and harsh. “Look how pretty you are, you’re all stretched for me. You like it like this, love?”

_ “Yes.”  _ Mycroft lets out hitching little cries. “Yes, I love it. You’re so big, it’s so good.” 

“Does it hurt?”

“Mm, yes, it hurts, I love it.” Mycroft reaches down, spreads himself open even more. 

“Oh, that’s perfect, you filthy little thing. Fucking shameless, jesus, look at you.” Greg grits his teeth, determined not to let himself skate too close to the edge just yet, but it’s not easy. This does it for him just as much as it does it for Mycroft. He knows when this part is over, Mycroft will be swollen and red, dripping with come. And that he’ll be pliant and sweet; drifting and lost for awhile. He’ll want to be fingered, to have his nipples bitten and his hair pulled before he comes. 

He’ll get so greedy and even more shameless, and Greg loves that. Loves it desperately. 

“Need a hand on you?” Greg checks. “Wanna come now?”

“No,” Mycroft pants, chest heaving. “No, no, not yet.”

“That’s risky,” Greg teases, grinding into him this time. “What if I left you like that? Filled you up and went to sleep?”

“You wouldn’t,” Mycroft says, a little cocky. “You wouldn’t do that to me.” 

“Wouldn’t I?” Greg speeds his thrusts, hands hardening on Mycroft’s thighs, and lets himself go a little brutal, a little selfish with it. “Shit,” he grits from between his teeth. “God, this tight little arse. It’ll be your own fault, you know. I can’t— Baby I’m gonna—” 

Mycroft’s gone wordless, fingers digging into his own skin, pulling himself wide open. 

Greg comes, and it sneaks up on him, slams into the base of his spine as he meets Mycroft’s wide, needy eyes all glassy with tears. “Ohfuck!” He shoves in as deep as he can, because Mycroft loves that, sometimes likes to spill all sorts of nonsense about how deep Greg’s shooting into him, how he can feel it. 

This time, though, Mycroft just gasps at the ceiling, body clenching rhythmically, purposefully as Greg twitches with every squeeze. 

“Oh my Christ,” Greg mutters, half to himself, as he shakes with it. “Swear to god, I don’t know how you manage it.”

“M-manage what?” Mycroft winces a little as Greg gently lowers his legs, stroking over the outsides of them and settling them carefully around his own hips. 

“You make me go off like a bloody shot,” Greg tells him. “It doesn't take much, just the way you look at me sometimes.”

“How do I look at you?”

Greg smiles, leans forward and kisses him. “Like you belong to me.” 

“Well, I do.”

“I know you do.” 

Mycroft arches under him, begging with his body for more kisses. “I love you.”

Greg obliges him, kisses him deep and wet, a little messy. “Love you, sweetheart.” 

He hisses when he pulls out, but he gets it together quickly, sliding back and replacing his cock with three fingers, grinning when Mycroft seems to dissolve into the stretch and burn. 

“You’re right,” he says. “I’d never leave you wanting.” 

  
  


***

  
  


It’s not all hard and fast. Greg’s fairly sure he’d injure himself if it was. And Mycroft needs more than that. He doesn't realize he needs it, but he does. And Greg is privileged to see him learn how to ask for it, or just take it. They had been crammed together in Greg’s little flat for months, and that had created a certain level of intimacy of course, but now that they live in  _ their _ place, Mycroft seems to settle, blossom, soften and steady all at once. 

One day in early December Mycroft comes home from a mysterious ‘consultation’ call and stands in the doorway of the lounge for long minutes. Greg, stretched out on the sofa with expense reports he didn’t want to read while hunched over his desk, tilts his head to check on him when it’s gone on long enough to go from quirky-Mycroft-thing to possible-Mycroft-upset. 

“You alright?”

Mycroft shakes himself. “I… spoke with a professional dominatrix today.” 

Greg raises his eyebrows. “Er…”

“It was for work.” 

“Really? That’s intriguing.”

Mycroft blinks, shakes his head. “It was unsettling,” he says. “Things are… stressful.” 

“Wanna come over here?” 

Mycroft nods, looking a bit numb and exhausted as he crosses the lounge. “Oh, look at them,” he says vaguely, as he passes the armchair. 

Greg glances to where the cats are draped all over each other in a little slice of winter sun from the window. “Yeah, they’ve been hibernating like that all day. Wanna take a leaf from their book?” 

Mycroft nods and makes a tired little sound as he flops down against Greg’s chest, wriggling into his space like it’s his right (it is), fitting their legs together the way their fingers lace. Greg hurries to toss the expense reports to the ground so he can fit an arm around him.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re okay, right?”

“Mmhm.” Mycroft relaxes by degrees. “I have a question.”

“I probably have an answer.” 

“If anyone found out about… about the way we are. In bed. Would you be ashamed?”

Greg wishes he could see his face. He wants to ask where this is coming from, how it all fits together. But… “No,” he says, the truth rising easily to his lips. “I don’t think I would. Maybe a little embarrassed, because it’s private, but not ashamed.”

Mycroft’s forehead presses against Greg’s chest. “I’m glad,” he says, a little tightly. 

“Did something—”

“Nothing  _ bad _ happened to me. To others, though. And I can’t stop it just yet. I’m frustrated and angry, and I feel… personally  _ offended _ by work which… it’s never happened before. I simply… don’t want to think anymore today.”

“Not a problem,” Greg tells him, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I’ve got you.”

“May I have a kiss?”

“You certainly may.”

“May I have… a great many kisses?”

Greg has to fight hard against a grin so he can deliver, tipping Mycroft’s face up with a gentle hand, bringing their lips together sweetly and then deepening it slowly, by degrees until it goes just a little hot. He rolls them, sandwiches Mycroft between him and the back of the sofa, pins him nice and cozy with a thigh over his legs. 

It’s not going to go anywhere - maybe toward a nap. Maybe just hours of languid kisses, making out like kids on the sofa. 

“I love this,” Mycroft whispers eventually. “I love this so very much.” 

“So do I,” Greg confides as if it’s a secret. “I could do this forever.”

“Please do?”

“Sure, baby. Let MI-6 and their dominatrix...es? Dominatrices?”

Mycroft chuckles into another kiss. “Let them what?”

“Let them sort themselves out. Scotland Yard, too. And everyone else.” 

“Fuck ‘em,” Mycroft says in a vague approximation of Greg’s accent. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Greg laughs. “You cheeky little bugger.” 

“Mmm,” Mycroft nuzzles in. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Oh, love… anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laura is actually really cool. She had concerns and her concerns were really valid. Greg should've known she would try to understand once her kneejerk reaction wore off. Now he's really screwed because it's not going to take Laura long to realize that if she enlists Mycroft to her side, she could probably get Greg to do literally *anything*. She will use her powers for good, not evil. Mostly.
> 
> Seems like a good time to say that this is going to be winding down in a bit. I don't think I'll be done with them, I just think I'd like to close this fic out so that it contains this first chapter of their life together, and then give myself a little time to mess with some other ideas before maybe coming back to this with a Part 2. 
> 
> ALSO? I have written this entirely as I posted it, only writing ahead a little bit. We're on track to hit 100k in like, 20 days. And while I'm *fine* (and I questioned it, honestly, because this writing speed has NEVER happened to me) I do want to make sure it keeps being fun for me and for y'all. I don't ever want to hit a wall with this and realize oh, I can't get another chapter out right now and oh no it's been weeks or months and I've left things dangling and now I feel guilty and we're just on a SPIRAL. In order for this to work as the text-based antidepressant I wanted it to be, I need to be realistic XD. 
> 
> But! We have a bunch of chapters still to go, so I hope you'll continue along with me <3


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we see the author attempting to meld canon and an AU.  
> Step One: Timelines aren't real  
> Step Two: Neither are rules.  
> Step Three: *shrug*

It’s no coincidence that Mycroft is called in at the same time his brother is being run around London on a scavenger hunt involving _bombs._

By the time Mycroft is shown into the situation room, he has already spent half the day screaming into his brother’s voicemail, and the other half nearly insensate with panic. On his way out the door, he had called Greg and rather forcefully told him to step in _now_ and get Sherlock under control. 

“I’m trying,” Greg had said. “I’m already out, I’m on my way to Baker Street. There was a _kid_ on the last call.”

“ _Christ.”_ Mycroft wishes he had something to hit. Instead he quickens his steps toward where the car is waiting for him. “I’ve been called in. I’ll do what I can to stop this.” 

“Stay safe,” Greg says, though they both know there’s no danger for Mycroft. What he means is: _stay calm, you can handle it._ “Love you.”

“I love you,” Mycroft sighs, and hangs up. 

  
  


***

  
  


In the end, late that night, Mycroft is taken to a two-way mirror just as a man in a suit is brought in on the other side. He’s collecting data before the man is shoved into the single chair. 

“They’ll need a team in Belfast,” Mycroft says, not looking away. “One here. He’ll have multiple nests, and a vast network. It’s likely he has begun laying groundwork for an alternate identity. A deeply entrenched one. It needs uprooting. Now. _Do not let him out._ Put him in a hole, and never look back.” 

“Holmes,” the voice behind him says. “Are you _sure?”_

“Get me your superior, Alicia.” He glances over his shoulder. “I’ll tell him myself.” 

“He’s on his way,” she says. “He left the first meeting with you and went directly to the chief. I’ve been instructed to get you anything you need. You may speak with Moriarty, if it will help.” 

“No,” Mycroft says. “I can’t speak with him. He’s… he’s obsessed with my elder brother. We can’t give him an inch, you understand. Not an inch.”

“Alright.” Alicia steps up beside him. “I hear you. Tell my boss; I’m just a lowly assistant. In the meantime, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

Mycroft shoots her a sideways smile. “I know, I apologize. I was out of the country for much of this year.”

“I was sorry to hear about your uncle.”

“Thank you; it was peaceful.” Mycroft sighs. “I think I need a cigarette.” 

“Oh, I have some,” she says. “Come on, let’s sneak one while we can. By the way, I think I heard through the grapevine that you were seeing someone?”

“Ah,” Mycroft says, then realizes he owes her some thanks. “Actually, yes…”

  
  


***

  
  


On the way to the conference room, Mycroft quietly asks Alicia to see what can be done to bring Irene Adler in for a meeting. Her eyebrows lift. “The dominatrix?”

“The blackmailer,” Mycroft corrects. 

“What makes you think—”

“A great many things.” Mycroft shakes his head. “Also, I’ll need a situation update on my brother. Where was he when Moriarty was picked up?”

Alicia winces. “He’s safe. I’ll get you brought up to speed after this meeting.”

Mycroft sighs. “Fine. Thank you, Alicia.”

“Do your thing, Holmes. See you in a bit.”

  
  


*** 

  
  


“I can’t keep him based on a hunch.”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. “Would you like me to draw you a _map?”_

He glares over his fingers at the man who would have been his direct supervisor, had he taken what the security services thought was their sweetheart deal. This man was not pleased when Mycroft turned it down and he is not pleased to be sitting here hearing from him now. 

“I have explained where to find the threads and how to follow them. I don’t know what else you could possibly _need._ This man strapped a six year old with semtex and hours earlier blew up an old woman and half a block of flats. That this has been allowed to get this far is on _your_ head. Now is _not the time_ to get into a pissing contest that _you have already lost.”_

“Listen here, you little— I’m not going to be dictated to by a poncey _child— “_

“Shall I go over your head?” Mycroft stands from his seat across the table. “I have absolutely no qualms about doing so. I don’t care if you pass up the chance to be the big hero, _truly,_ it means nothing to me to make you look like the incompetent blowhard you are. That man has done nothing but wheedle your interrogators for hours. You’re going to bend eventually. Someone is going to give him something, thinking he’ll give you something in return. He _won’t._ You will let him walk and he will murder again. And again. And _again.”_

“And you think it’ll be your junkie older brother he goes after next, and so you are _compromised.”_ The man quirks a supercilious eyebrow, as if he has regained some sort of upper hand with that comment. “Your family has always been far too self-important, you know. Overblown ego is in the bloodline.” 

_“Ego?”_ Mycroft breathes, slow and deep and deadly calm. “He has _already_ gone after my brother. He nearly blew my brother, his partner, and a swim centre to smithereens mere hours ago. You think this is about _ego?_ You…” He steps forward, thinking of all the ways he knows how to break a nose. “You, _sir,_ have just lost your job.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“Whoa!” Greg darts out of the kitchen and a cat goes hurtling past as well when Mycroft slams the door to the flat when he arrives home. “What the hell? Did something happen? I left the boys at Baker Street, the were fi— ”

“I’m going to have to—” Mycroft wrestles himself out of his coat, then tries to attack the scarf around his neck, which now feels as if it is choking him. “You know, I’m going to end up there after all. The _bloody_ _fucking security services._ Because if I don’t, I _know_ people will die. _People. Will die.”_

“Baby, calm do—” 

_“Not now!”_ Mycroft shouts, flinging the scarf to the ground. “Don’t _do_ that now, I don’t want _comforting!_ I had to— I had to use every name I’ve ever had to drop tonight. Nearly every single one. I’ve had to pull on every ounce of credibility my Uncle tried to give me. And the effort could fail anyway. _I_ could fail, because I am _nothing._ A _consultant.”_

“Mycroft, what is going _on?”_

And Mycroft finds that he is exhausted. That he is _done._ “Come with me.” 

He takes Greg into the bathroom and turns on the tub and the shower and the sink, the thunder and rush of water bouncing off the tile walls. He yanks Greg close and whispers the entire awful tale in his ear: how despite all of the ethically questionable and outright reprehensible things he has witnessed and of which he has heard tell, MI-6 might let a psychotic serial murderer walk, claiming lack of evidence when there are piles of it. And how that murderer _will_ see Sherlock dead. How it goes deep, and he doesn't know _how_ deep, and if he can’t manage the situation, if he can’t remain involved, he may never find out. How he is sick with fear and anger. When he’s done he’s nearly in furious tears, which he can’t _stand,_ and Greg is pale as a sheet. 

“Okay,” Greg mouths. “Okay, I understand.” 

He hauls Mycroft in, kisses him hard and a little painful. Leans into his ear. “You don’t have to end up there. Nothing has changed. They need you more than you need them, right? Make them listen. Fuck them up, baby. Go in there, and _fuck them up.”_

  
  


***

  
  


It is incredibly satisfying to shoot the chief of SIS a bland smile as Mycroft breezes past the waiting area and into the PM’s office where half the cabinet is already waiting. 

  
  


***

  
  


It’s going to throw their lives into upheaval, probably. Eventually. But not just yet. Moriarty sits in a cell for now, and now that he can breathe, Mycroft is only relieved that he had finished winter term when the idiocy and recklessness rains down on them all. 

“I am furious with you,” Mycroft hisses down the phone. _“Furious.”_

“And I feel very badly,” says Sherlock blandly. “So sorry for not getting John and myself blown to smithereens.” 

“Not the point, Sherlock,” Greg snaps from over Mycroft’s shoulder. “Not at _all_ the point.” 

“You brushed up against very serious intelligence matters with this, in addition to engaging in war games with a sociopathic criminal, using London as your game board.” Mycroft says through his teeth. “It put me in a questionable light. I have been attempting to untangle the Bruce-Partington mess _and_ ensuring Moriarty is put down, and you have taken two days to return my bloody call.” 

Mycroft would _love_ to know how Sherlock got tangled up in the case of a murdered MI-6 clerk, and why it would not have occurred to him to perhaps mention it to Mycroft, but he can’t have that conversation now, lest his head explode.

“Well, you should be fairly accustomed to that from me, brother mine.”

“You’re coming here for Christmas Eve,” Mycroft snaps. “You will act perfectly normal in front of Greg’s sister. No negotiations. This is what you owe me.”

_“Owe you?”_

“You owe me for over a decade of missed Christmases, actually, you selfish prick,” Mycroft says, a little less snappily, because it bothers him more than he has ever wanted to admit. “Let _alone_ for the headache I’m going to have for the next six months because you are a complete nutter.”

“And what, you’re going to make me do this?” 

“I will call our mother and tell her that you have no plans for Christmas.”

Sherlock hangs up on him. Mycroft throws the phone onto the sofa and covers his face with his hands, holding back an outraged scream. Greg catches him by the elbow and tugs him in. “This could’ve gone so much worse, Mycroft.”

“It still could.”

“No,” Greg murmurs. “No, you have it in hand. _We_ have it in hand. I’ve got Gregson getting together a list of names for a task force. We’ve already made a lot of connections between this Moriarty and several cold cases and recent dead ends. We’ll work from the bottom, you work from the top. Meet you in the middle, alright? At the place where his network falls apart.”

Mycroft tilts against him. “God,” he mutters. “And it’s going to be incredibly tedious, too.”

“We can pull late nights in the study together,” Greg teases, warm and seductive in Mycroft’s ear. “We can make a wall with red strings and all, like a bad cop film. Oh, baby, let me tell you about my color coding system.” 

Mycroft doesn't want to let go of the tension in his shoulders, tempted to cling to it, use it as a crutch to keep him from going too far in the opposite direction. But he can’t hang on to it with Greg in his ear, his fingers a little ticklish against Mycroft’s sides. “You are not funny,” Mycroft mutters. 

“I’m hilarious,” Greg replies. “But really. You’re not handling this alone. You’re not running off to some basement bunker to try and pull all the strings in secret.”

“There is no basement bunker,” Mycroft says to Greg’s chest. “I have been in a comms van before, though. They get too warm and a bit smelly, and there aren’t nearly as many flashy lights as films and television led me to believe.”

Greg chuckles. “Yeah, I’ve been in one, too. Nasty, really. If only our jobs were as glamorous as they are on telly, hm?”

“If only.” Mycroft leans away. “Will you… can we just. Go to bed?”

“Just for sleep?”

“Yes, please.”

“Thank God. I’ve been up for two days and I really, _really_ couldn’t have managed anything else.”

Mycroft smiles. “Come on then, old man. Let’s tuck you in.”

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft spends hours in the dark and then in the growing dawn light, agonizing over what he should do with the jitter in his body, the noise in his head. 

_Wake him up. Don’t wake him up. Don’t be needy. Get a hold of yourself. Don’t make it his problem—_

“I can feel you thinking.”

Mycroft winces, even as the raspy rumble of Greg’s voice against his back connects directly with his hindbrain and induces his muscles to unclench by degrees. 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft murmurs. “Go back to sleep, I’ll try to—” 

Greg’s hand splays over Mycroft’s chest, pulls him tightly back against his own. “Tell me what you need.”

“I… don’t know what I need.”

“Do you need me to know?” Greg’s mouth presses hot behind his ear. “Need me to handle you?” 

Mycroft shudders and squeezes his eyes shut against the heat behind them, the nauseous rise of emotion in his throat. He can’t produce words, just a strangled sound through his clenched jaw. 

“Hey,” Greg says softly, rolling him onto his back. “Baby, _hey,_ don’t do that. It’s alright if you want it like that today. You can let it go for a few hours. You _need_ to.” He presses warm kisses to Mycroft’s forehead and cheeks, and then to his trembling mouth. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack at the age of twenty-one. It’s no good, love.” 

“You shouldn’t have to—” 

“Do you think it’s a problem for me to touch you? To take care of you?” Greg’s fingers are gentles in his hair. “You think I’ll hold you down and get inside you and wish I didn’t _have to?”_

Mycroft swallows hard, doesn't answer. 

“Look at me.” Greg waits until he does. “I’m here for you, baby. What do you _need?”_

Mycroft lets out the breath he’s holding, slowly. “I just don’t want to think. I don’t want to make a single decision.” 

“That can very much be arranged.” Greg gives his hip a light smack under the covers. “Up. Shower. Come on.” 

Mycroft follows directions all the way into the bathroom, into the shower, and through the process of moving this way and that for Greg to wash and condition his hair for him. 

“Hands against the wall there,” Greg says, close to his ear. 

Mycroft leans forward, rests his hands against the tile in front of him. He tips his arse out, moves his feet apart, mostly on instinct. 

“Ah, good boy,” Greg says behind him, pleased. “Gonna get you all clean, alright?”

“Mm.” 

Mycroft finds himself drifting pleasantly during, letting himself rock back into soapy fingers and the gentle spray of water. 

“Gonna take a look.” Greg sinks into a crouch and spreads him open. “Lovely,” he says, slipping a sudsy finger inside. “Oh, lovely, sweetheart. Keep relaxing like that for me.” 

Mycroft flattens his forearms against the wall, afraid he’s going to slip and needing a little more grounding contact with a solid surface. After a while, Greg withdraws his fingers, rinses him carefully. He noses in the dip at the base of Mycroft’s spine, kisses the dimples there, and licks idly down the cleft os his arse. 

Mycroft vaguely registers his own erection as Greg tugs at it idly with a soap slick hand. 

“You’re so tense,” Greg murmurs, rising to his feet and pressing the words into the nape of his neck. “Gonna get you out and dry you off. I think you need a little of that oil we bought in Paris. These shoulders are made of rocks. My poor baby.” 

Mycroft is steered out of the shower, dried gently, and arranged on the bed to Greg’s liking, and then his shoulders are tortured into relaxation, the press and slide of oiled thumbs painful as the knots are worked out of them. Mycroft is whimpering into the blankets by the end, feeling a little bruised and strangely fragile. And he’s starting to lose track of time, lose track of his thoughts, sometimes just thinking how nice it is to be handled, how well his Daddy does it. 

He’s slipped into the bliss of being handled without noticing. How lovely. 

“It’s okay, love,” Daddy whispers in his ear.

Mycroft can feel him hard against his thigh, but nothing that has happened or is happening is overtly sexual. Mycroft shivers as warm, oily hands work down over his arms, back to his shoulders and down to his lower back, circling on either side of his lumbar spine and just at the top of his buttocks, before they sweep back up to dig gently into his shoulder blades. 

“I love touching you.” 

Mycroft hums, a little tremulous, a little afraid to try speaking. His throat feels thick, choking with something like relief. 

“You get red so easily. All pink and glowy. So _pretty.”_

Mycroft shifts against the bed, not trying to seek out friction against his cock, just trying to get comfortable, and swallowing a groan when friction happens unintentionally. 

“Turn over,” Daddy whispers, and then helps him do it. His hand brushes over Mycroft’s eyes. “Close these for now. Relax.” His hand remains gently over Mycroft’s eyelids while the other urges his knees to lay naturally, not bent or locked, and then splays over his chest. “Deep breaths. Come on, get them even, Mycroft. You’re not helping yourself by tensing up again.” 

He does his best. The hand over his eyes moves away, and one of Mycroft’s hands is picked up, the palm worked over with firm thumbs, each finger gently pulled and rotated, then the wrist. Fingers massage the soft inside of his elbow, then stroke down to his pulse point. 

“There we go,” Daddy murmurs, pleased, and does the other one. Mycroft can’t help but smile, face turning toward his voice as if he can catch the praise like sunlight. “Look at you, sweetheart, you feel okay? Feel good?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies. His first instinct is to wonder if he really _does_ feel good, because he also feels about ten seconds away from a complete breakdown. But after only a brief hesitation, he decides it’s still true. He _does_ feel good. His body feels amazing. He’s a little surprised at the slurring of his own voice. “Good, Daddy, thank you.” 

“What am I gonna do with you, hm?” Daddy’s mouth trails hotly over Mycroft’s palm, the place where he’s just taken his pulse again, to press sweetly to the soft spot on the inside of his arm. “Always something new to figure out.” 

Mycroft nearly opens his eyes, but decides not to. “I’m sorry,” he says thinly. 

“I wasn’t complaining.” He shifts up, kisses Mycroft’s lips very gently. “You’re perfect, and you have nothing to be sorry for.”

Mycroft leans toward the voice, the warm breath, wanting to be kissed again. He’s given what he wants and then some, a series of liplocks and pecks, lush presses of mouth to Mycroft’s chin and jaw and throat. By the time his right nipple is covered with wet heat, Mycroft is practically heaving, each touch burning like a brand. 

Daddy’s mouth is indulgent and incredibly soft. Loving. Mycroft arches into it, gasping as the lick turns to sucking, then sudden cool air, intentional blowing that has his skin prickling. 

“I wish you would let go, Mycroft.”

“I— I’m trying. I am.”

“I know you’re trying.” Kisses move to the spaces between his ribs, the softness at his side, then back up and over to the other side, the flat, wide swipe of a tongue heating his other nipple while rough fingers skim up to the right one, still wet with saliva. “You try so hard, baby.” Fingers roll the hard nub of flesh while the other is licked and sucked gently and sweetly, a mirror of the attention paid to the first. 

And then the pinch, the twist. A hard, sudden jolt of pain mixed with threads of pleasure as Daddy digs a thumbnail into the sensitive skin. Mycroft’s eyes fly open, his mouth dropping open in shock. His breath stays trapped in his lungs as he curls into the pain. 

It’s over quickly. The sting and throb are immediately soothed with kisses, softer hands petting him through the shake. 

“D’you like that?”

“I—” Mycroft struggles to breathe. “I don’t know. Yes. No. I—” 

Daddy’s hand slides down his body, palms roughly at Mycroft’s cock which, though he’s been ignoring it, is nearly throbbing now, sticky precome dabbed against his belly. He'll try it again, change it up a bit, unless Mycroft tells him not to and brings out the safeword (it’s still _blueberries,_ which is still ridiculous). 

Mycroft doesn't want to tell him not to. 

Mycroft hitches into the touch, and as fingers wrap carefully around him, a _bite_ this time, right over the tender, just-twisted flesh of his nipple. It’s harsh and sucking, and Mycroft is absolutely certain he is going to come. 

He doesn't. Tight fingers at the base of his cock stave it off, and a strong arm holds his hips still. 

“I like it,” Mycroft grinds out, between choked, confused cries that he can’t stop as the bite is soothed gently. “I like it.” 

_Like_ isn’t the right word. Mycroft thinks that _need_ might fit better. He’s already addicted to the shock, the subsequent lavishing of gentle attention. He wants more. 

The next comes when Daddy works his way back down to the soft love-handle bit at Mycroft’s side that he is normally self-conscious of, but as teeth sink into the softness and a hand pumps over his cock, Mycroft is too busy trembling with the effort it takes not to scream to worry about it. 

When Daddy gentles his mouth this time, sounds stutter out of Mycroft like desperate sobs beyond his control. 

“God,” Daddy murmurs. “That left a hell of a mark.” 

Mycroft blinks at the ceiling, feeling a bit like he’s sinking, and only vaguely worried about how much he likes it; how much he wants to disappear into this. “Oh.” 

“You’ll want to see it later.” 

And then a matching bite is applied to the sensitive inside of Mycroft’s thigh, both of his Daddy’s hands pinning him roughly to the mattress, leaving his cock to twitch against his belly. 

He sits up between Mycroft’s legs, picks up Mycroft’s right hand, kissing over his palm, sucking his thumb into his mouth briefly and then setting his teeth gently between it and Mycroft’s forefinger, flicking his tongue over the delicate little web of skin. 

Mycroft shudders, watching helplessly as his Daddy kisses the inside of his wrist, where his pulse must be rabbiting madly, and then up the pale length of his forearm. He’s so _handsome,_ so intent on what he’s doing to Mycroft. Mycroft can’t handle the flood of feeling rushing through him, can’t control it, so he lets it drown everything else. He does it gladly. 

Teeth sink hard into the meat of his arm just below the crease of his elbow, just as they have everywhere else - not hard enough to break skin, but _hard,_ suction burning the skin, bringing blood to the surface, starting a reaction that will lead to swelling, a little pain, a brilliant mark later. 

Mycroft can’t cry out now, too entranced by the sight of the head beant to his arm, the loving application of mouth and teeth. The pain is no longer pain, but something else, the alchemy of all of this coalescing as he’s gently released. 

And— 

He’s so lost, the rush of blood in his ears drowning out his own harsh breaths. He feels a bit like he’s coming untethered, but then his knees are hitched in careful hands, there’s a body sliding against his, a sweet friction that has him arching, head tipping back, and his Daddy kisses him, a hand at his cheek, another raking through his hair. Mycroft can only squeeze with his thighs, legs wrapped around rolling hips. 

Teeth close around the firm muscle before the crook of his neck, the same muscle his Daddy had so carefully massaged earlier. It’s electrifying; Mycroft’s skin feels hot and tight and as if it’s barely holding itself together. 

Maybe it’s the way his Daddy kisses the purpling bruise then, lips gentle over the deep indents from his teeth. Maybe it’s the softness of his face after he does it, worshipful and caring, the touch becoming almost ritualistic. Maybe it’s the next deep, proprietary kiss to Mycroft’s panting mouth. 

It breaks something in Mycroft’s chest, shatters whatever control he has remaining. 

He sobs. Gasps for air and sobs again, eyes filling and spilling over as Daddy thrusts against him, reaches between them to circle their sliding cocks in one hand. 

“No,” Mycroft sobs, so overwhelmed that the pleasure almost reads as pain. “No, no, I can’t, it’s too much.”

“You can,” Daddy murmurs, and twists his palm, kisses a tear track and licks the salt from his lips, presses his forehead to Mycroft’s. “Yes, you can. You’re so good, Mycroft, you’re so perfect, let me feel you come. Come on, love.”

Mycroft grabs or him, his fingers clawing, raking into silver strands of hair and holding on tightly, probably too tightly. And he cries, he can’t _stop_ crying, can’t believe the constant flow of tears from his eyes, the deep well of sobs in his chest. Daddy kisses his last bite again, and Mycroft can picture his face, can picture his eyebrows drawing together as his lips press softly, the love in it. It makes it worse - the crying - but he also shoots, sudden and consuming, between their bodies, a whine caught in the back of his throat. His entire body rocks with it and with the increasingly uncontrollable outpour of tears, all at once. 

“There you go,” Daddy pants. “Oh, Mycroft— ” 

Mycroft clings and buries his face, hides his ugly crying face only to have it tilted back out with a firm hand at the join of his jaw. 

“Don’t hide from me.” 

Daddy’s hand strokes over them still, sparking too electric where Mycroft is over-sensitized. He presses their lips together and shudders. Mycroft holds onto his shoulders and lets his mouth be taken as more wet heat spreads between them, drips down knuckles and the crease of Mycroft’s thigh.

“I’m— sorry, I don’t know why I’m—” Mycroft dissolves again. It feels like his face is collapsing under the weight of it. 

“It’s okay,” Daddy soothes. “It’s okay, I know why. You’re just fine, I’ve got you.” 

Mycroft shudders through more, held and wrapped up tight. He feels as if it stops abruptly, some minutes later. It’s as if, finally and with a crash, he reaches the bottom of the well, and it’s empty now, and he can fall quiet, still, and nearly dry-eyed, inside the circle of his Daddy’s arms. 

“Oh, god,” he whispers, as a gentle hand wipes his cheeks for him. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Daddy whispers. “That was amazing, you took everything so well for me, you gave me everything. Sometimes crying happens, it’s fine. Thank you so much baby. You’re wonderful.” 

Mycroft can only hang on more tightly.

“You look like a weight just came off your chest,” Daddy murmurs. “And you let me mark you all up, let me take care of you. You’re so beautiful, and I’m so proud of you, baby. I always am.” 

Mycroft realizes that his entire body feels about as useful as a wet noodle. It’s a little distressing, until he’s being arranged carefully, big hands moving him this way and that before they fetch wipes out of the bedside table. The mess is cleaned away from their skin, and then one leg is tilted out, bent at the knee, the livid mark on his thigh exposed to the air. One arm is angled away from the bruise at his side, and then the other is laid crooked near the pillows so that the forearm bite is tucked into the bend of his elbow. His Daddy touches the last bite, and then the first, fingers tracing the edges of raised flesh around his nipple. 

“These hurt more than a smack or ten on the arse, I’d guess?” 

Mycroft bites his lips, nods. “But not… not in a bad way at all.” 

“Okay.” Daddy sweeps his thumb over the last bite one final time. 

Mycroft can only watch his face, and the slow movement of his hands.

“God,” Daddy whispers. “God, look at you. I love you so much, I can’t believe I—” his breath hitches, stutters. “I can’t believe I get to touch you.” 

Mycroft blinks rapidly against another swell of emotion, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. “Daddy.” 

“C’mere.” 

Mycroft curls into him, vaguely understands that covers are being tugged up over their shoulders, that more kisses are being pressed almost compulsively to his cheeks and forehead. 

Small points of stinging and bruising keep Mycroft more present than he might have been otherwise, and for a while he lets himself focus on them, drift along on the dull ache. But he’s exhausted. Wrung out, and possibly somewhat cleansed. 

Finally, he does what he hadn’t been able to manage all night. He falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was, uh, kind of hard to write actually! Dang! Super excited for next chapter which is pretty much All Fun All The Time.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS. My laptop tried to CATCH FIRE. LITERALLY. I swear it wasn’t the fic! Or maybe it was. Either it was super hot or a higher power was smiting me for being a perv. Oh well! Can’t stop won’t stop!
> 
> I had to use my iPad to post this and it was a huge pain in the ass. I apologize if anything looks wonky. Please feel free to not let me know about it unless it renders things totally unreadable, because my stress levels since the smell of burning plastic turned out to be coming FROM MY LAPTOP? They’re sky high, y’all. 
> 
> BUT I love this fic and all of you. HERE WE GO.

  
The bite marks fade to a faint yellow by Christmas. 

Before then, while they’re still dark and faintly painful, Mycroft makes an appointment for after the New Year with a therapist through MI-6. Greg listened to him expound on the reasons why: while he’s sure it is perfectly normal to experience a certain level of catharsis, he lived the entire day after the marks were imparted in a fragile fog, and insomnia seems to have become his new normal. 

None of this is new information to Greg. 

“I think we’ll have to draw the line at needing to engage in hours of pain play just so I can sleep,” Mycroft said, looking at the purpling bruises in the mirror.

“Uh.” Greg knew the look he gave him then was fairly judgmental. “Yeah, I think we can draw that line and maybe a few others if you’re saying that as if it’s news?”

Mycroft had rolled his eyes, but Greg could see that he knew he was teetering on the edge of some pretty bad mental fallout. 

He stays on him about it, and Mycroft eventually says it’s probably better to rely on Greg to Daddy him, so to speak, into going to a therapist than to rely on him to act as human antidepressant.

Again, not news to Greg. 

Mycroft glows at the quiet “Well done,” Greg kisses into his hair after he makes the appointment, and then wonders out loud if he should suggest to John Watson some sort of reward system that would convince Sherlock to give it a try. 

Greg really has never been so exasperated by or in love with a single person before. 

Jesus. 

  
***

  
Gemma’s winter dance recital comes the week before Christmas, and Greg’s thrilled when Mycroft offers to come with him before Greg musters the nerve to ask. It isn’t that he thought Mycroft would say no, or say yes but secretly hate it - Mycroft is glad for the chance to see Laura again, eager for dirt on Greg’s teenaged shenanigans, and also to finally be introduced to his nieces.

“Bette will be there,” Greg says, not for the first time, as Mycroft is batting his hands away from his tie in order to fix it for him. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, eyes bright and eager. “I am well aware of that.” 

Greg lets his eyes track over Mycroft’s outfit - not so unlike Greg’s: nice trousers, shirt, tie, no jacket - all of it very well tailored. Not that Mycroft is ever seen in ill-fitting clothes. But this isn’t his usual style. Unless he is called in to work - where he makes himself look older with serious, staid three-piece suits - Mycroft exists in slim chinos and button-downs, often with criminally soft jumpers on top. He has let Greg talk him into jeans at home, the occasional t-shirt (he’s very choosy about them) or henley. But for the most part, he sticks to a facsimile of a boarding school uniform, though Greg has noticed that he leans toward rich, deep colors, jewel tones sometimes, in the details. 

This outfit is not any of that. This outfit makes him look young, but not as young as he is, and sleek. Fit. Expensive. 

It compliments the outfit Mycroft had presumed to choose for Greg. They don’t match, but Greg can see how Mycroft’s sharp lines and cool colors will work against the charcoal grey of Greg’s shirt. How the watch Mycroft puts on Greg - from his own collection, so miles nicer than any watch Greg has ever worn - elevates the whole thing just a bit, as does the tie which Mycroft solemnly informs him is vintage Hermès, as if Greg has any idea what that means. 

Mycroft insisted that Greg not shave for a bit ahead of the holidays, only to send him to a ridiculously pricey barber for a trim and shape-up. All of these bossy little presumptions have lead to the two of them, side by side, looking a bit like they were carefully designed to stand next to one another. 

Greg had sort of assumed it was all a long, convoluted Christmas present. A bit of seasonal pampering or something. Mycroft is fixated, sometimes, on doing overly indulgent, expensive things for Greg, because he still worries all the time that he is too much, too needy, and tends to try and ‘make it up’ to Greg through acts of gifting and spur of the moment thoughtfulness. 

Greg thinks two things as he stares at their reflection in the mirror: 1) the therapy appointment is very, very needed for a great many reasons, and 2) Mycroft is a devious, wonderful little monster. 

“You’re planning on meeting her,” Greg says. 

“Oh, yes,” says Mycroft, gleeful. He reaches up and fixes a strand of Greg’s hair. “I hope she burns with jealousy for weeks. Months. Her entire life. God, we look good.” 

“Yeah,” Greg murmurs, hauling Mycroft closer by the hips, reaching around to lay a proprietary hand on his backside. “We really do.” He turns him, holds him against his chest. “Look.” 

Mycroft blinks at the mirror, then smiles. It spreads over his face slowly and sweetly. “Well,” he says on a surprised little exhale. “Look at them.” 

“Mmhmm.” Greg presses a kiss just below his ear, right where he knows it’ll get to him the most. “You’ve managed to make me look like the sort of person who’s worthy of having you on his arm.” 

“Shut up,” Mycroft groans. “Don’t ruin it.”

Greg laughs. “Ruin what?”

“The moment,” Mycroft says, sarcastic, and tips his head back onto Greg’s shoulder so he can nip sharply at his jaw. “I did this to be petty, and because I knew the proximity to Christmas would make you more likely to let me. I did not do it so that you could say that. Also, perhaps this example of the level of work I could do on your wardrobe will convince you to give me free reign. You could look like this all the time.”

Greg shakes his head, has to kiss him. “You are such a little shit. No, thank you. A D.C.I. starts showing up to work in Tom Ford, people ask questions.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “When you retire, I’m doing it. Watch me.”

When you retire. 

Greg tucks that away, like he does all the little throw away comments Mycroft makes about a distant-ish future, and lets it sit warm in his chest for a moment. 

“Come on,” he says, a little raspy. “We’ll be late.”

  
***

  
Three of Laura’s girls, nine-year-old Alice, twelve-year-old Wren, and fourteen-year-old Gemma in her cakey stage makeup and sparkling tutu, descend upon Greg and Mycroft after the recital. Their sharp, assessing girl eyes and brash questions clearly knock Mycroft for six, but he holds up admirably. 

Caroline, the oldest, is eighteen and out with friends tonight while they’re all home from uni, and while Greg misses her, he’s a little glad she’s not there. He’s not quite ready to see Mycroft and his niece, so close to him in age, standing side by side. Judging by the shocked blinks Laura’s husband keeps throwing Mycroft’s way, neither is everyone else.

“Oh my god,” Gemma whispers, dragging Greg away. “Uncle Greg, he’s _really hot_.”

“Whoa!” Greg holds up his hands. “No, no, _absolutely not—”_

“I’m just saying! In like a cute, nerdy way. Wow!” 

Greg would love to die. Or just have any reason to leave. Where’s a demanding, entitled call from Sherlock when he really needs it?

“Aunt Bette is going to choke.” 

“ _Gemma.”_

“Well she is.” Gemma shrugs. “I mean, I love Aunt Bette but like… you know, I love you best.”

Greg hugs her, a bit helpless, and hopes that if he squeezes tight enough she’ll shut up. 

It’s just after he releases her, pushing her toward her mother, that Bette finds him. As usual, she looks great. She’s cut her hair, a sharp chin-length bob instead of the long layers she wore for their entire relationship. She rarely wears makeup but tonight she’s wearing her favorite - Cherries In The Snow, bright and youthful, perfectly applied, just as she always does for performance nights and special events. 

She looks both the same and completely different, and Greg realizes that for the first time his marriage seems like it happened a long time ago, and not just the other day. He wonders when that finally sunk in. 

Bette’s eyebrows raise as she approaches. “Greg,” she says, eyes flicking over his haircut, the stylishly groomed stubble, the watch. “You look very nice.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” he says, a little annoyed that, though he’s had a nice little revelation about having finally achieved closure, he hasn’t magically grown the ability to have a conversation with her. Probably fair enough, considering she did cheat on him three times in as many years. What really is there to say?

Before Greg can stutter out something ill-advised, a proprietary hand slides around his hip, a familiar arm around his waist. Greg returns the sideways embrace instantly, lifting his arm to curl around Mycroft’s slender shoulders, the firm muscle of his upper arm reassuring under his hand.  
“Ready to go, darling?” Mycroft asks, eyes only for Greg, as if Bette isn’t standing there. As if he hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s interrupting and with whom. 

Greg tries not to grin too obviously. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “Ah - meet Bette.” Greg turns back to her and her slowly lowering eyebrows, her gradually fading cool-friendly smile. “Bette, this is Mycroft, I think I mentioned him to you a while ago.”

Mycroft’s smile doesn't falter, but his eyes do a rather obvious once-over, which Greg knows he could’ve easily hid. He doesn't sneer, grimace, frown, smirk, nothing, but somehow it is very obvious, hanging in the air, that he has just passed a bit of silent, posh judgment. “Lovely to meet you,” Mycroft says, not extending a hand. 

Bette’s eyes flick to Greg. He’s tempted to shrug. He hasn’t the faintest idea how to act. Neither of them do. Usually by now she’s making thinly-veiled, snide comments about his workaholic nature, expressing dismay that he’s found the time for his niece - though he always has found the time for the girls, and they both know it. It made her so angry, actually, when they were married. That he could, or would, shift things for them but not enough for her. Had Mycroft not interrupted, she might have been chatting up her upcoming spring wedding, implying Greg should look for an invitation in the mail as if he would go. 

This upset in the routine of white-knuckled non-civility is unheard of. 

Mycroft looks away from Bette, a dismissal, no desire to hear anything from her. He knows who she is and he does not care. “I’ll bring the car around,” Mycroft says, and plucks Greg’s keys from his pocket as if it’s practiced and assumed, as if he has ever once driven Greg’s car. Greg had honestly thought Mycroft didn’t know how to drive. 

“Sure,” Greg says, a little wide eyed. He accepts the kiss Mycroft gives him - a hand holding him briefly by the back of the head; long fingers in the freshly trimmed hair; the easy, familiar press of lips, as if Mycroft always bestows casual, fleeting kisses before he goes. 

He doesn't. That’s Greg’s department. Mycroft generally accepts them with a sweet little smile, but if he’s kissing Greg it’s usually with a bit more intent than a quick peck. Mycroft kisses when it’s the only way to say what he wants to say; when it’s not just natural but necessary. 

Greg realizes that just now was no different. He feels full of fizz at the reassurance in that little press of mouth on mouth. 

_Wow._

Mycroft gives him a little squeeze and heads off, throwing some sort of look over Greg’s shoulder, where he assumes Laura is watching this entire thing unfold. 

“How—” Bette scoffs a disbelieving little laugh. “What is he, all of twenty-five?”

Greg doesn't correct her. He lifts one shoulder. “Does that matter?”

Her nose wrinkles. “I should think so.”

Greg… realizes that it doesn't. Or, if it does matter to her, he very deeply does not care. He makes a noncommittal sound, shrugs again. “We’ve been together for over a year. He’s younger. We live together. That’s it. It’s going really, really well.”

“You _live together?”_

Greg can tell she really wants to look at Laura, hurt that Laura doesn't feed her information on Greg’s life since she left it. Laura only continues to see Bette because Gemma has had her as a dance teacher her entire life. Laura is probably extremely satisfied just now. 

“Yeah,” he says. “As of last month. Nice place in St. John’s Wood. We’re having Laura and that lot over for Christmas Eve. His brother too. Should be really lovely.” 

Bette rears back. “You’re not working on Christmas Eve?”

Greg shrugs, and can see that it infuriates her. “Anyway, I don’t want to keep him waiting.” 

_“Jesus,_ Greg,” she snaps. “Mid-life crisis, much?”

He laughs - not bitter, just genuinely amused that this is happening. “That’s funny,” he says. “I guess some people hit a certain age and decide to fuck around on their marriage for kicks. And some move on and meet the love of their life. Good luck with your wedding. Hope he isn’t the jealous type. Night, Bette.” 

And he catches Laura’s eye, tosses her a wave, and leaves his ex-wife gaping at his back. 

  
***

  
“We have—” Mycroft gasps. “We have a bedroom.”

“Don’t want to wait that long.” Greg finally gets Mycroft’s trousers open and drops them to his ankles. He sinks to his knees. “God, you’re fucking glorious.”

Mycroft makes a fantastic little noise when Greg pushes the absurdly expensive designer shirt tails out of the way and sucks him through the silky fabric of his underwear. “Oh— _yes—”_

“You’re so smart,” Greg says, yanking the pants down and palming his bare cock. He loves how Mycroft is so up for it basically all of the time. He’ll miss that instant hard-on switch someday, but oh, does he enjoy it now. “You knew it wouldn’t take much. Just… just a little window dressing. You barely looked at her. Fuck, I love you.” He swallows Mycroft’s cock to the root, hands on his thighs, holding them with reverence, worshipping him with his tongue. 

Mycroft’s hand settles in Greg’s hair. “It wasn’t much,” he says, breathy and a little amused. “All I wanted was… oh, like that… I just wanted you to feel - _ah_ \- confident, I suppose. Wanted to dress you and treat you better than she ever did, and I wanted you to feel it when you saw her. It was selfish of me, really.” He shudders under Greg’s hands. “I want to be the only thing you think about. You know how I get.” 

Greg hums in agreement - he loves how Mycroft gets. How he is. He does all of the things he knows will drive Mycroft crazy with his tongue, moves his hands around to dig fingers into Mycroft’s arse, and guides him into a rocking rhythm. He makes a point of playing up his own pleased moans and sighs so Mycroft knows how much he loves it. 

Mycroft pants and cries out, fingers massaging through Greg’s carefully groomed hair, mussing it up completely. “Oh, fuck— I’ll never do what she did. I’ll never hurt you like that. I’ll never— I’m never leaving. I love you, I love you, oh, I’m— close—” 

Greg’s eyes are closed in absolute bliss. The words are unnecessary but wonderful all the same. He knows these things. He knows that what he has with Mycroft is on an entirely different plane of reality to what his marriage turned out to be. His first marriage. Greg shivers with that stray thought and works Mycroft over til he shouts and comes, muscles clenching under Greg’s hands. Greg swallows it all down and thinks about how he could stay on his knees for Mycroft all night. But the second Greg gentles his mouth away, Mycroft sinks to his knees too, sliding down the wall Greg had shoved him against, and crashes into a filthy kiss. 

“You knew all of that, didn’t you?” He knocks his forehead softly against Greg’s, nudges their noses together. “I understand that no bad relationship is just one person’s fault. I’m not naive about it But you… you still deserved better. You _deserve_ better. I’m going to _give_ you better.”

Greg hauls him into his lap, buries his face in his neck. “I knew all of it, baby. But feel free to say it as much as you want.” 

Mycroft huffs. “Well you certainly say enough wonderful things to me. I suppose I could attempt to rise to such a high standard.” 

“Ok,” Greg says. “Get up, help me off this floor. Bedroom. Right now.”

  
***

  
The holidays have been bearing down on them, and Greg copes with the headache of organizing a multi-precinct task force while Mycroft alternates between calm analytical pragmatism and stewing rage. 

They manage to keep sane with sacred Sunday morning breakfast and a strict cut-off time of eight in the evening every night. After that time of day, no one utters a word about Moriarty, the security services, Scotland Yard, London traffic, Sherlock, or current events. 

The night before Christmas Eve, as evening turns the corner into night, Greg cleans the kitchen and checks that the food prep he wants to get done before the next day is finished, and listens with half an ear to the somewhat aimless plinking of piano keys. 

Mycroft likes to play like this, like he did when he sent Greg the video - it feels like fifteen minutes and also fifteen years have passed since then, not closer to fifteen months - with a sort of aimless shift between pieces spread along a wide variety of genres. 

Tonight, the music from _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ morphs into “Nature Boy” slides into “Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues,” which is stopped abruptly for some actual blues. When he starts “Love Of My Life” and doesn't seem inclined to change his mind, Greg leaves the kitchen to watch him play. 

Mycroft looks even younger when he sits at the piano. It’s the awkward tilt of his body, a little bit of hesitance like he’s not sure he should be doing it, like Greg doesn't want to hear it, or if he does that he’ll pick out every little flaw. Maybe that’s why he jumps from song to song so much. His face is so serious, and Greg’s heart hurts for the sweet, lonely little kid who learned how to play in the first place. Greg can imagine that same face on that little boy and as usual he has to breathe through the intense desire to give Mycroft’s parents what-for. 

About halfway through the song, Greg slides next to him on the bench, straddling it and giving him room to move his arms, and rests a hand at the center of his shoulder blades. Mycroft relaxes, and then straightens, a little more sure as his fingers move over the keys, wrists so graceful and starting to move just a little showily for Greg’s benefit. 

Greg presses a kiss to his cheek as the last notes tumble away. “That’s one of my favorites.”

“I know.” Mycroft leans sideways into him. “Your favorite version is the live performance at Wembley, it’s in your top 25 most played on your phone. You were what, eighteen when that was recorded?”

“Mm. About that age, yeah.” Greg sighs. “The album came out when I was a little older than you are now. I remember very well. God, I was a complete idiot. Pretty torn up about a lot of things, so I guess I can give myself a bit of a break. But yeah, I wore the tape out. It was… comforting. I went through a fairly solid punk phase in the 80s but before that, there was just Queen. I was obsessed. My dad hated it. Thought Freddie Mercury was a pervert. And, well, that only made me love him more.”

Mycroft smiles, playing absently with Greg’s watch band. “Did you ever… what did you think, when you realized you were bisexual?”

Surprised, Greg has to take a breath and think about it. “Wow,” he says. “I haven’t thought about that in ages. But I mean, I definitely thought: that can’t be right. I must’ve been maybe fifteen? And it just seemed like such a weird thing to think - nonsensical, since I had a girlfriend and all.” He watches Mycroft’s fingers slipping under the leather at his own wrist, and turns it, letting Mycroft run his fingertips over the veins on the underside and the watch’s buckle. “I had no idea that liking both was a real thing a person was allowed to do. Took me until I was seventeen to realize it wasn’t going away. Hadn’t been a throw-away thought. Not coincidentally, that was when I got my very first blowjob, and it was not from a girl, and I did not remotely dislike it. So. That was a pretty big hint.” 

Mycroft laughs. “You think so?”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Why d’you ask? Not that I mind. I’ll tell you anything you want.” 

Mycroft moves on to rubbing his thumb across the lines of Greg’s palm. “I don’t know, I guess I just wonder how you got to be the way that you are.” 

“Mmm…” Greg mulls that over. “Well. Ask Laura tomorrow night.” 

“Oh, I’m obviously going to pump her for information, but… Well, I know this might surprise you, but I do in fact like to talk to you.”

Greg ducks his head for a quick kiss. “Do you? I’d never have guessed.” 

“Who was the boy? The first blowjob?” 

Greg can’t help the snort he lets out. “Tommy Portillo from down the road. Absolute dickhead. Called me a poof the next day.”

Mycroft’s nose wrinkles adorably. “How tacky of him.”

“Very!” Greg laughs. “I didn’t have a really decent experience with a man - one that involved feelings and everything - until my early twenties. Though, now that I think about it, I wasn’t exactly making deep and meaningful connections with girls before that, either.”

“You said once that you skewed toward men when you were younger.”

“Yeah.” Greg curls his fingers around Mycroft’s. “And I had such a problem feeling alright with it, I guess, which wasn’t helped when my father caught me in a slightly compromising position with a guy I’d met at some pub or other, drinking underage. Don’t know what I was thinking, bringing him back to mine, but again, drinking underage. I was out of the house the next day. Laura had already moved to live with friends. I wound up on their sofa for a while.” 

Mycroft turns on the bench, one leg curling sideways so he can fully face Greg and lean in, hand on his cheek, for a kiss. “I’m sorry.”

“It was actually alright,” Greg says, staying close and brushing the words against his lips. “Laura’s friends were fun, and I was away from my dad, who was never easy to live with in the first place. And it gave me room to figure myself out. I joined the police the year after. The rest is history.”

Mycroft leans back, shaking his head. “Oh, no it isn’t. I’ll get more details from you yet.” 

“What, you want my entire memoir tonight?” Greg laughs, though there’s something about that, about Mycroft’s unhidden interest, the way he simply asked, like he knows he can ask Greg anything and Greg will give him the truth, that fills Greg with more of that fizzy feeling. 

“Not the entirety, no.” Mycroft pressed his other hand atop Greg’s, sandwiching it between his own and studying the layers of their fingers. 

Greg sometimes wants to tell Mycroft that his tactile tendencies when he is happy and comfortable are one of his absolute favorite things in the entire world, but he worries it will make Mycroft self-conscious, and then he’ll stop. So he just watches him, obsessed and smitten and utterly charmed, as usual. 

“I wonder if you’ve always been like this,” Mycroft says. 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know how to describe it.” He laces his fingers through Greg’s and then straightens them again. “Only, you always seem to know what to say. You always seem to know what I want. And you know what I need sometimes before I do. You’re terribly forgiving and permissive, and let me get away with being a complete idiot sometimes - don’t argue, you know that you do, I realize I do the same for you and it’s fine - and you just… I can’t help but wonder if you’re always like that with your partners, and when I think about it I feel… jealous.”

Greg couldn’t keep his grin off his face if offered money to do it. “You’re cute,” he says, only encouraged by Mycroft’s wrinkling nose. “The answer is no. I’m sure some things are the same because my personality hasn’t changed that much. But I don’t think I was the same with other people because I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.”

“Don’t say that.” Mycroft flushes and looks away.

“Why not?” Greg leans in, ducks his head to catch Mycroft’s averted eyes. “It’s true. I’ve thought about it. It’s not that I didn’t love Bette. I did. But it wasn’t the same. At all. Not even in the beginning. I never once fell for someone as fast as I did for you. I’ve never been this in tune with another person and I can’t explain it. I can’t explain us. That makes it even better, I think.”

Mycroft lifts his eyes, smiles. “You know, sometimes I feel… badly. About how much you take care of me.”

This is not the first time this has come up. “Mycroft… I don’t feel uncared for. At all.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“I’ve never considered it, but if you want me to promise you, then yes, I would.” 

“Good,” Mycroft says. “Bed? I feel as if the moment we stop talking i’m going to try to clean the lounge again. I’m too nervous about tomorrow to be trusted awake this late.”

Greg nods, pressing his lips gently to Mycroft’s worried forehead. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Come on, sweetheart. I could do with a cuddle, too.”

  
***

  
They’re nearly asleep, Mycroft curled up against Greg’s chest, tucked under his arm, when Mycroft whispers, “Greg?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you want to be married again?”

Greg’s a little too far into sleep. He doesn't react, isn’t sure this conversation is happening for real. “Of course I would,” he sighs. “Only to you, though, love.”

He drops off. 

  
***

  
The next night, from across their crowded flat, Mycroft shoots Greg a little smile so sweet it draws him up short, and the memory of the conversation drops on him like a bag of bricks. 

Oh. 

Greg holds it together and smiles back, shoots him a little wink, and hands Mrs. Hudson her drink. Mycroft’s attention is drawn by a pair of nine-year-old hands tugging at his arm, Alice revealing her obsession with him for about the hundredth time that night. Mycroft is endearingly baffled by it, but he takes her very seriously and it only encourages her. Greg’s sure it’ll explode into a crush before long, and he really can’t blame his niece.

God, he is done for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fire burning fire burning on the dance floor, as they say. Or, I guess, at the dance recital.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, the fic surpasses 100,000 words. I have been writing it for 20 days. I have nothing to say for myself. :D

  
Mycroft loves Christmas Eve. He does. He has never had a Christmas like this, with extended family and unrelated friends, with children around. Even when Mycroft was a child himself, there were no other children to play with at the holidays. He only vaguely remembers Sherlock being there when he was very small. 

Sherlock at this moment is listening to Laura’s husband go on about something, and he’s bearing up well under the strain. Mark is an art teacher. Mycroft would think he owed Sherlock for the just barely polite nods he’s adding to the exchange, if he weren’t so angry with him for the mess with Moriarty. 

As much as Mycroft loves this, as strangely pleasing it is to be cornered over and over by Greg’s curious nieces, it’s overwhelming, to say the least. 

He manages to catch Greg alone in the kitchen, having tracked him subtly for fifteen minutes waiting for his chance. 

“Hey love, alright?” Greg buries his head in the refrigerator for a moment, emerging with bottles of wine tucked under his arms and in his hands. “Alice and Wren driving you mad?”

“No,” Mycroft says quickly. “No, they’re fine. Funny. I don’t understand why I’m so interesting to them, but I suppose it’s nice to be so sought after.” 

Greg laughs. “Good. Take it as a compliment. They’re rather judgey, those two. Their seal of approval is practically a knighthood.”

Mycroft feels a bit silly, glowing under the praise of two little girls, but. Oh well. There are worse things. “Well, as nice as it is, my head is beginning to spin, so I’m going to take a fifteen minute sabbatical to the study if that’s alright.”

The wine bottles are set down immediately in a quick, complicated little juggle. Greg steps close, hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. “Yes,” he says. “That is absolutely alright. And you did not have to ask me.” 

“I know,” Mycroft says. And… he does know. “I’m only warning you, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to suffer through anything. Ever. If you’re overwhelmed, go. Go to bed if you want, it’s your house. Your party. You can ditch it if you want to.”

Mycroft laughs. “No! I wouldn’t want to do that. I promise, I.. I love this. It’s the loveliest Christmas I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Just. When the back teeth start to clench without my notice—“

“Go,” Greg says softly, and gathers him in for a kiss.

Mycroft shivers. He hadn’t been exaggerating the night before. Greg always knows. Always. “I’m not going to say what I want to say, because both of our families, my brother’s unhinged flatmate and landlady, and Gregson are one room away. But thank you. You take such good care of me.”

Greg grins, kisses him once more, arms tightening around his waist. “Live dangerously and say it, I’m intrigued.”

“No you are not,” Mycroft murmurs. “You know.”

Greg’s eyes sparkle at him. “Yeah, but do it anyway. It’s Christmas.”

Mycroft can’t help it. His grin goes a little dirty and he knows it. He leans in close and drops his voice. “When all of these people get out of our house, I’m going to demand that you fuck me bent over that hideous armchair you insisted on, and then in front of the Christmas tree, and then, perhaps, we’ll make it to bed. At which point you will likely be very tired, meaning I will need to do all the work. Which of course is fine, because nothing - nothing - is better than riding that big, thick cock. I’m going to be very demanding. Very needy. I’m going to expect multiple orgasms. But you’ll give them to me, because you love that. And in the morning I’m going to suck your brains out through your prick and bring you your gifts in bed. And then I’m certain I’ll think of more for us to do. Or you will. I am very much open to suggestions and requests. Thank you for being so good to me. Daddy.”

Greg’s eyes are hooded and he looks rather stunned, one arm still wrapped tightly around Mycroft’s waist and his free hand hovering near Mycroft’s face, as if he’s stopped himself from touching him there. As if he’s on the knife’s edge of doing what he would normally do right about now, and grab Mycroft firmly by the jaw, hold him still and kiss the breath out of his lungs, back him up against the fridge and knock all the magnets off. 

Mycroft smiles, aiming for sunny and unaffected. “Anyway, I’ll be back in a tick.”

Of course, he has all of a half-second to enjoy Greg’s lust-drunk facial expression, because when he turns to go, Sherlock is lurking in the doorway. 

Mycroft’s body drains entirely of blood, so at least he doesn’t need to worry about an obvious erection. Mycroft attempts to recover quickly, vaguely registering Greg’s muttered Christ behind him. “I’m just stepping away to the study for a moment,” Mycroft manages. 

“Wonderful,” Sherlock intones. “I shall join you.”

Mycroft nods, numb. “Excellent.”

He can’t stand to look back at Greg as they leave the kitchen. 

  
***

  
“How much of that did you hear?” Mycroft asks, slotting the key to the study into the lock and letting them both in and shutting the door behind them. 

Sherlock shoots him a smirk. “Only a little.” He crosses immediately to the windows Mycroft likes best about this room. They’re awning style, hinged at the top and swinging out at an angle. It makes the study feel fortress-like, but when it is warmer, Mycroft will be able to open them for breeze without exposing large rectangles to the outside world. Of course there are censors for the alarm system, and it doesn't hurt that no human could slide through these windows without breaking the panes or wrenching them off their reinforced hinges. 

Mycroft rounds the desk and falls into the chair. It’s the same chair their uncle used for as long as Mycroft can remember, re-stuffed and the leather recently repaired. He swivels the chair to watch his brother’s back as he observes the dark sky outside. 

“Are you alright, Sherlock?”

Sherlock glances over his shoulder only briefly before turning his attention back to London. “I’m fine. Are you?”

“I’m concerned,” Mycroft replies. “But… I’m doing my best. Are you?”

Sherlock turns away and moves back across the room to the empty bookshelves, the file boxes stacked on top of a side table. “Yes, of course I am.” He tips the lid off the top box. “I do realize that I never have before, but I am in fact doing my very best to… handle this.”

“Can your curiosity be set aside?” Mycroft rocks the chair back on a tilt. “Can you, if Moriarty eventually walks, leave it untouched? Let Greg and I handle it?”

Sherlock scoffs. His fingers trip over the tabs of folders inside the box he opened. “You say that is if that will be a possibility. He’s after me, Mycroft. You speak as if I have a choice.” 

“You do have a choice.” Mycroft rubs at his own temple. “Sherlock, sometimes I feel as if I’m the older brother and you the younger. It boggles the mind that I should have to explain to you that perhaps the best course of action is simply to sit still.”

Sherlock leaves the box, hand pulling away from it as if burned. “I don’t want to know what’s in this,” he mutters, more to himself than to Mycroft, and moves to the chair across from Uncle Rudy’s - Mycroft’s - desk. He plops down into it, elbows resting on the arms, his chin propped up on his own steepled fingers. “Mycroft, I can’t.”

“You realize that from what I can gather of his profile, from what we have found so far, he is very likely to go after not just you but those closest to you?” 

Sherlock raises both eyebrows. “Concerned for your own safety?”

“I’m concerned for John Watson’s safety,” Mycroft says, amazed he has to clarify. “Joanna Gregson, Martha Hudson, Greg. At the risk of sounding jealous, on the list of people close to you, I rank somewhere toward the bottom of the page.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Good lord. I can’t tell if I should be admonishing you for over-estimating my relationships with others or under-estimating my relationship with you. You are my brother.”

“Until recently, I was lucky to hear from you once a year.” Mycroft shrugs. “I’m not asking you to feel badly about it, I didn’t say what I said because I harbor bad feeling toward you for it. It’s simply the truth. John Watson, on the other hand? The first romantic attachment you have ever—“ 

“Romantic attachment?”

Mycroft blinks. “...yes?”

Sherlock snorts and stands swiftly. “John Watson is my flat mate. Blogger. Occasional dogsbody. That is all.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft laughs. “Come on.” 

“You reveal your naïveté, brother. You in your perfumed bubble of domestic bliss, assume incorrectly that all of us are compromised in that way. I assure you, it’s not a concern for me.” Sherlock moves toward the door, pausing at the stack of file boxes. “You shouldn’t go through these,” he says. “Let it lie.” 

Mycroft doesn't bother standing up. He slumps a bit in his chair, arms crossed over himself in an admittedly protective way, unsettled by having got this wrong, and tired, as always, of the Sherlock of it all. “Why did you hate him?”

Sherlock rears back, face lined in confusion. “Hate who?” 

“Uncle Rudy, of course.” 

“I didn’t hate Uncle Rudy, Mycroft.” Sherlock drums his fingers on the lid of the top box. “I hate what he had to do, and what I had to do because of it. You don’t need to see the dark underbelly, brother. I don’t want you to see it. That you are as well-adjusted as you are is the only consolation.” 

Mycroft can’t help but laugh. “Well-adjusted? You think I’m—“

“You are,” Sherlock interrupts. “Very much so. You might have a host of issues related to a lack of relatability to your peers, a cold mother, and the many quirks and peccadilloes that come from an exhaustion with one’s own perception of the world.” He shrugs. “Call your boyfriend Daddy, I don’t care and nor should anyone else. It’s actually the most normal thing about you. You could be doing heroin in a ditch. You could only feel alive when you are in danger. You could… be very lonely. You’re fine, Mycroft. And I’m glad. Merry Christmas.” 

Sherlock opens the door, and ducks out before Mycroft can say anything to any of that. 

  
***

  
The party winds down not long after that. Mycroft finds himself tucked against the arm of the sofa, Morse in his lap and his feet tucked under the edge of a throw blanket Laura is using, Alice cuddled beneath it against her side. She and Mycroft have wine in hand, refilled without comment by Greg whenever he passes by. 

Sherlock and his contingent have gone, and Greg is seeing Gregson out the door. Laura’s other three daughters have turned on the television to watch Elf with the volume turned low. Laura’s nice-but-awkward husband Mark has busied himself in the kitchen as Greg’s “helper.” 

It gives Mycroft a chance to really talk to her, and not to simply pump her for information. Mycroft likes her. She reminds him of Greg and also a bit of his friend Alicia. Laura had planted Mycroft next to her on the sofa and said, wryly and with perfect delivery, “Your brother, bit of a boring sort, isn’t he?”

Mycroft had blinked and then hurried to apologize, and Laura had caught hold of his hand and gently told him she was just kidding. She’s heard wonderful things from Greg. He’s awfully handsome, what’s the deal with the flat mate, did he and Mycroft grow up in some drafty manor house somewhere? 

Mycroft has never had a conversation like this. It’s honest and genuine and funny. 

“Our family is wealthy,” Mycroft admits softly in answer to the last question. “My mother’s side. Sherlock and I are the end of the line, so to speak. The bulk of the money and property was my Uncle’s, and now it’s ours, though our mother does retain ownership of the house I grew up in. Not a manor house, but a nice one, in Sussex. Sherlock did grow up in a more auspicious home, Musgrave Hall, but it unfortunately burned down when I was a baby.” 

“Did you have servants?” Laura’s eyes go wide; she’s joking. 

“Not as such,” Mycroft says, biting his lip against a grin. “Nannies. Tutors. A house cleaner, because our mother is hopeless in that department. That sort of thing. We’re posh, but we aren’t exactly the aristocracy. My Uncle had a housekeeper and a staff of assistants and hangers-on who always seemed to be around. That’s all.” 

“That’s all,” Laura teases, pinching his foot through the blanket. Mycroft twitches, still not accustomed to the way she does that - casual touching. “You know how Greg and I grew up, yeah?” 

Mycroft nods. “Yes.” 

“He’s mentioned your childhood wasn’t exactly an easy one.” 

“Ah… no. Not really.” Mycroft doesn't see where this conversation is going, which makes him a little anxious, a little wrong-footed. “It wasn’t… I was not badly mistreated.” 

“Greg disagrees.” Laura covers Mycroft’s hand, resting on the back of the sofa, with her own. “Look, I’m just trying to say that I think you’re good for each other. I’ve never seen him so happy or comfortable in his own skin. Not ever. And this flat? The things you give him? It’s all just things, but it’s also better than anything either of us ever had or thought we’d have. And I know my brother. I know he probably smothers you with affection, probably thinks you hung the moon and won’t be told otherwise. Sounds like you could use a bit of that.”

Mycroft doesn't know what to say. Laura squeezes his hand. 

“I know,” she says. “I know you aren’t used to hearing things like that out loud. I know I’m killing you, here. But I wanted to tell you that I see it, and I’m happy he has you. Also, I do need you to know that if my brother ever does anything to hurt you, you are to let me know, and I will murder him.”

Mycroft blinks. “He would never. Shouldn’t you be threatening me?”

“Greg can handle himself.”

“I can handle—“

“Shh.” Laura squeezes his hand again and pats it. “Big sister rules. The cute young one gets the offer of murder for hire. Alright?” 

Mycroft is blinking far too much this evening. “Right.” 

“Good.” Laura tugs him in by his hand and kisses him on the cheek. “I have to get these girls out of here. They’re going to be up at the crack of dawn screaming about gifts, so. This was a great party.”

Mycroft nods. “It was. Thank you for coming. Let me help you—“ 

“Sit,” Laura commands before he can move. “I’ll make Greg help us with our things. Don’t disturb that ugly cat on my behalf.”

Mycroft runs a protective hand over Morse’s shaggy fluffy coat. “He’s unique.” 

Laura winks at him and goes about rousing Alice from her doze. 

Mycroft notices then that Greg has been watching them, smiling from the kitchen doorway now. Mycroft smiles back with a helpless shrug. 

Families, it turns out, are exhausting but also rather lovely. 

  
***

Once they’re alone together, the flat’s level of disaster becomes jarringly clear. Strewn with wrapping paper, serviettes, empty glasses, and dirty plates, not to mention the general disarray from furniture being moved this way and that, it’s… daunting. 

“I… am not dealing with this tonight,” Greg says, once they’ve blinked at it a bit. 

“Oh, thank god,” Mycroft sighs. “I had a vision for tomorrow, but honestly… forget it. I don’t need to be impressed by the flat, and neither do you. We live here. It’s lovely. It can be… this. For Christmas.”

Greg chuckles and kisses his temple and guides him to the bedroom. “A vision?”

“You know,” Mycroft says, offering up his wrists so Greg can handle the cuffs. It’s automatic, now. “The fire burning brightly in the morning, a lazy breakfast with the cashmere blankets I have stored in the ottoman and the good coffee with whiskey in it. Bing Crosby on the turntable. Things like that. I planned to take very precious photos of the cats with their gifts.” 

Greg glances up from where he’s working on the buttons down the front of Mycroft’s shirt and grins. “You got the cats gifts?”

Mycroft is honestly deeply offended by this. “Yes, of course.” He shrugs out of the shirt. “Why have pets if you don’t plan to spoil them?”

“Oh, I agree,” Greg murmurs, going for Mycroft’s belt. “I… also bought gifts for the cats.” 

Mycroft laughs, and maybe it’s the wine, or just… Christmas cheer. But he says, “God, I love you. Forget everything I said earlier; you should let me fuck you tonight.” 

“Oh?” 

Mycroft’s trousers hit the floor, and he steps out of them as he nods. “Yes, I want that. Yes?”

“Literally anytime, baby,” Greg replies, grin stretching to its limit. “Are you alright? You’re not drunk, are you?”

Mycroft blinks, a little thrown off by this. His thumbs are hooked in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and he pauses there. “No, of course not. A little wine tipsy, but no. Do I need to be drunk to want… that?”

“Sorry,” Greg says quickly, stepping back into Mycroft’s space and sliding warm, rough hands around his hips to squeeze apologetically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I assumed it wasn’t your thing, I suppose. Which would be fine, just to be clear.”

“I know it would be fine.” Mycroft sways in, Greg’s shirt buttons cool against his own bare skin. “But I… I did like it, I just. It feels strange to ask for. I don’t even know why I asked now, other than I just… very much wanted to.”

Greg’s arms slip around him, hold him closer. He presses his mouth to Mycroft’s cheek. “You should always ask me for what you want.”

“I do.”

Greg laughs, a silent little shake of his chest against Mycroft’s. “Yeah. I love how you ‘ask.’ More like telling. You do know I love that, don’t you? My little brat?”

Mycroft is thoroughly reassured. “I know,” he says. “But still… we don’t have to.”

“Oh fuck that,” Greg says. “I want to. Come on. Fuck my brains out.” 

And so, Mycroft tries his very best. 

“You could just tell me you want me to do this,” he says, fingers slicking Greg quickly, efficiently, while he pretends his eyes aren’t greedily taking in every hitch of hips and twitch and gasp of air. “I think we should both know better, by now.”

“Yeah,” Greg breathes, but he probably has no idea what Mycroft just said. His brow knits in concentration as he relaxes around Mycroft’s two, scissoring fingers. “Come on, I don’t want a lot of prep.” 

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Mycroft says, and ducks down to suck the head of Greg’s cock into his mouth, lips catching at the foreskin and drawing it up, stretched over the slick glans. He flicks at it with his tongue and lets go with a pop, lets it slide away again, stroking hit back with his hand while the other twists to press his fingers firmly against Greg’s prostate. The sounds he gets for that… god. 

“You’re so fucking good at everything,” Greg mutters. “Infuriating.” 

“Blah, blah, blah,” says Mycroft with a bratty roll of the eyes, lips brushing over Greg’s cock as he says it, trailing down, down, down to where is fingers are. “Yes, I’m fantastic, we know.”

Greg kicks at him with one foot. He’s laughing. “I knew one day you would be too spoiled.” 

Mycroft nuzzles against his balls, and then behind them, fingers thrusting harder now. “I am not.”

“Get up here,” Greg grunts from between his teeth. “Now.”

Mycroft laughs and goes, gently withdrawing his fingers as he does so he can settle over Greg’s body, cock snugged into the crease of his thigh, belly-to-belly and chest-to-chest. “Yes, Daddy?”

Greg gets a handful of Mycroft’s backside and squeezes. “You are too spoiled,” he says, low and sexy, before nipping at Mycroft’s lips. “But I’ll never stop. You’ll go completely rotten with it, and I’ll still keep it up.”

“Well, then we are in agreement,” Mycroft says. He kisses him good and filthy, then sits up between his legs. “Spread,” he commands. 

Greg raises his eyebrows at him and does it, thighs falling open. 

Mycroft sighs. “God, thighs,” he says, hands running over the thickness of them, the silver-and-black hair on them. “Fucking delicious.” 

“Don’t go back down there,” Greg breathes, almost a little pleading. “Please, baby, get on with it. I want you in me.” 

Mycroft needs to pinch himself subtly, not simply take his cock in hand and wank furiously until he comes all over Greg’s waiting hole, just out of bratty spite. And out of desperation, because hearing that said out loud had been… rather a lot. A bit of a blow to his grip on things. 

He nods instead, using one hand to press against Greg’s soft inner thigh, splaying it out more. He hooks a hand over the opposite knee. “Get your leg up,” he says. 

He slicks himself quickly. Doesn't linger, because he really is dangerously close to coming if he lets himself give in to the urge to chase sensation, to demand more pleading. 

Sinking into Greg’s body is overwhelming. “God,” he breathes. “God, this has not gotten any easier.” He hangs onto Greg’s shin, the leg held up against Mycroft’s shoulder, and his thigh, the one splayed out against the mattress. He worries he’s gripping too tight, but fuck, his grip on Greg’s flesh is somehow, in his mind, connected to his grip on himself. If he doesn't hold tightly, he’s going to go off like a shot and this will be over shamefully quickly. 

Greg’s arms are stretched up over his head, curled around the pillow. His whole body is there for Mycroft to look at: the tremble in his belly, the clench of his muscles; his heaving chest; the strength in his arms. His eyes are lidded and his mouth is wet. And he laughs softly. “It would if we did this more,” he says. “Which. We should.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees absently, and presses forward until he’s fully seated. He shudders. “Fuck.”

Greg does something, clenches internally. “Oh, yeah. Get to it, baby, I’m up for however you want it.” 

Mycroft wants it slow, and is slightly worried that he won’t be able to accomplish that. He wraps his arm around Greg’s leg, presses his mouth to the ankle, just there on his own shoulder, and rocks out and then in again. “Oh, god.”

“Yeah,” Greg says, as if he’s agreeing, and licks his lips. 

Mycroft can’t take his eyes off his face. He watches every shift and twitch and flicker of tongue as he fucks him, gentle and shallow, easing deeper and deeper with every rock of his hips. He catalogs every little change in Greg’s face, trying to find the right sequence of movements to make this so good for him. He eventually feels like he can unclench, so to speak, and moves the hand that has been holding open the splayed thigh, running it up and through soft, salt-and-pepper chest hair, which can’t quite hide the flush spilling down from Greg’s neck. 

“You look—“ Mycroft swallows. “You are so beautiful.” He rocks in deep, grinds there, and withdraws, finding the right spot to fuck into, shallower movements, and faster, to make Greg’s mouth fall open in a silent cry. To make his cock twitch against his belly and his breath to visibly stutter in his chest. “Is that it? Tell me if it’s good.”

Greg exhales on a soft ha, and lets go of the pillow, his hands stroking Mycroft’s sides. “It’s good,” he says. “It’s so good, you’re so good for me, baby.” 

Mycroft gives it to him like that, then; gentle, rolling, practically tantric - until they’re both slick with sweat and breathless. He shifts his hand to the back of the knee bent against his own body, and pushes, giving himself some leverage to fuck a little harder. It feels unbelievable, he feels unbelievable, and that’s before the sounds start cracking out of Greg’s chest, harsh and hot, wordless. 

“Oh, Daddy,” Mycroft sighs, shoving the thigh under his hand even higher up. He can tell that Greg really does love this, and he believed him when he said it was fine that they don’t do this, haven’t since the first time. But honestly. “You really should have— should have told me. I didn’t know you liked this so much.” 

“Shut up,” Greg manages through his teeth. “You’re such a shit. Just fuck me, and stop— ah!” 

Mycroft laughs, picking up the pace and leaning down for a very fleeting, very dirty kiss. He has to shove Greg’s knee practically up to his ear to get it, and absolutely cannot hold him there for any amount of time. But when they part and he leans back again, they’re both grinning madly, and Mycroft bite’s at Greg’s calf muscle as he fucks into him harder and even faster. 

“Oh, Christ,” Greg gasps. “Oh, please— Baby, please, give me your hand.” 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, a little vague - he’s so close, so close. He’s relieved to have been given a direction; knows that soon he’ll be a quivering mess and not much good to anyone. He fists Greg’s prick in one sweat and spit-slicked hand, stroking quick and merciless, with a twist at the crown like he knows Greg loves. “God, come for me,” he breathes. “I want to feel it. Come on my cock, please, Daddy—“

Greg shouts, his hands twisting in the sheets. “Close— so close.”

Mycroft shoves the leg on his shoulder back again, gets his back into every rolling thrust, and he knows he’s found it, found the angle, when Greg goes momentarily silent, mouth open in what could be a scream. He feels the flutter and clench first, and then he watches it, watches the hard cock in his hand get somehow just a little harder, and the first shot of come streaking across Greg’s tense belly. 

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” Greg moans, head tipping back on the pillows. “Mycroft, baby, so good.” 

“I’m—“ Mycroft gasps. He strokes Greg through it, biting the inside of his cheek, desperate not to let go just yet. Not until the last pearly drops of come have spilled over his own hand. “Oh—“ 

He shoves Greg’s leg down without a thought, gets both thighs splayed wide open, and it takes all of four frantic shoves to come, his forehead dropping to Greg’s shoulder as those delicious thick thighs wrap around him, pulling him in closer and holding him there, emptying himself deep inside. 

“Oh, god,” 

They say that together, and then they’re both laughing, even while Mycroft is still shuddering though the last of it. 

“I really—“ Mycroft shivers. “I really did plan to do all the things I said to you in the kitchen.” He kisses aimlessly at whatever skin he can reach. “And then I rather thought we would do this much more… Christmasy.” He laughs along with Greg, shaking against each other. “You know what I mean. Soft. Pretty. Glowy.”

“Glowy,” Greg chuckles. “That’s a word I’ve never heard you use. But… well. I dunno, this was. Pretty glowy.”

Mycroft laughs, leans up and presses their mouths together. “Mmm,” he agrees. “Very much so.” 

“You have got to get out of me,” Greg says after a moment, effectively shattering the glow. “My thighs are seriously about to cramp.”

And Mycroft laughs some more, laughs until they’ve both managed a perfunctory clean-up and curled around each other under the sheets, the cats having deemed it safe to join them, curled similarly at their feet.   
  
Once the giggles have subsided, Mycroft murmurs, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Mm,” Greg sighs “Merry Christmas, love.” 

  
***

  
Greg used to like to cycle, and Mycroft was fascinated by this a few months ago when they first discussed it. They must have mentioned maybe taking it up together a hundred times, without ever making a clear plan for it. 

They get each other bikes for Christmas. Same model, same color, no prior discussion. 

Greg is outraged that his surprised has been thoroughly stepped on by this delightful coincidence. 

Mycroft… Mycroft feels glowy. 

It’s the best Christmas he’s ever had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See y’all soon :) I think we have 2 or 3 chapters left in this one. We’ll see how things go for our heroes <3 Still doing this from an ipad, so I worry that I’ve missed things like typos and errors, because I’m not accustomed to working this way. But uhhh bear with me!!!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I figured out how to make italics work between google docs and AO3 when using my tablet. I get ice cream for this accomplishment.   
> Y’all- I think we have like, 2 chapters left. I’m freaking out! What are we gonna DO after that???  
> Hmm....

“Can I ask you a question?”

Greg, still catching his breath while Mycroft waits sprawled on his belly across the bed, his arms folded over Greg’s torso and his chin resting on them, can’t imagine what could need to be asked right  _ now.  _ He doesn't understand how Mycroft can even form  _ words.  _ “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

Mycroft sits up, rolling easily away and up onto his knees before settling on his heels. Greg doesn't think Mycroft is double jointed, but sometimes he wonders. How he moves like that is a mystery. 

“Do you ever wish we had more normal sex?” Mycroft asks, blunt and plainly stated with what Greg can tell is a carefully blank expression. 

“What?” Greg shakes his head; maybe that’ll clear it. “Wait,  _ what?  _ We just  _ had  _ sex. Literally  _ just  _ did.” 

“Yes, and it was… not… normal. Was it?”

“Yes, it was.” Greg struggles up onto his elbows. “What? Of course it was.”

“No,” Mycroft says slowly, as if Greg is  _ very  _ dense. “No it wasn’t. It almost never is. I— Even if I don’t— Even if I am only saying it to get us both off, even if I’m still…  _ mentally separate _ from it, calling you what I call you—“

“Stop.” Greg shoves up, sitting up with  _ far _ less grace than Mycroft had done. “Just - shush for a moment. First of all, since when can you not simply say it?” 

“I’m trying to maintain distance,” Mycroft informs him. 

“Why?” Greg has to work to shove aside the rising panic in his chest. “Why are you asking this? Did something happen? Was that not… did I hurt you? Did I— was it bad?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft says, not reassuringly, but as if Greg is very stupid for asking. 

_ “Hey,”  _ Greg protests. “Stop being a dick, I don’t know what you’re talking about. We have  _ normal sex.  _ Any sex we have is fine as long as we both like it. Did someone  _ say _ something to you?”

God, Greg doesn't know who would have even known to say something, and he really doesn't  _ want _ to know. 

“No one said anything.” Mycroft sighs, hand rubbing absently at the opposite forearm, where a three-day-old bite mark is still a livid, lovely purple. “Well, at Christmas Sherlock called me well-adjusted.”

“Great?”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“I am clearly  _ not _ well-adjusted.”

Greg feels tension start to slowly bleed out of his shoulders. “Baby,” he sighs. “You really are, I think. You’ve been through a lot in the last year, and you… you’re coping pretty well, actually.” 

“I use you to slow my thoughts.” Mycroft’s eyebrows are knit together. “I let myself call you Daddy and sometimes I’m doing it in my head all day and I don’t tell you. I— I do things to make you annoyed just to see if I can get you to start something sexual. Usually involving some sort of role play or punishment. I don’t ask you first. I don’t ask you first when I do almost  _ anything  _ I do. And you let me. You just let me. I get overwhelmed and tired and rude. I get  _ nasty.  _ And you…  _ let me.” _

“Wow,’ Greg murmurs. “You really need to come over here.”

“No.” Mycroft shakes his head. “Don’t  _ coddle  _ me.”

“Mycroft?”

“What?”

“If I had a problem with the way we are I would tell you. Before you left for the States you got  _ angry _ with me for being too gentle with you. And you were right. I was being weird.  _ That _ was weird. Not… not anything else. Now suddenly you… don’t want to do this anymore?”

Mycroft looks away. “It’s not that.” 

Greg huffs and gives up on this strange stand off in their sex-mussed sheets. He gets onto his knees as well, with a wince, and shuffles across the mattress. “Then what is it?”

“ _ Do  _ you want to have more…  _ vanilla  _ sex?”

“No,” Greg replies, and it’s instant. He knows the answer like he knows his own name. “I don’t want to change anything. What we do happens naturally, in my opinion, so if what you consider ‘vanilla’ happens then fine, but if it never does… I have no complaints, baby, and I hate that you think I would.” 

Mycroft turns his head to face him, and he looks so relieved it breaks Greg’s heart. “Are you certain?”

“Of course I’m certain.” Greg reaches for him and is relieved when Mycroft comes just as easily as ever, crawling the last half a foot closer and climbing into Greg’s lap naked and willing. “Are you  _ okay?  _ You have me worried.”

“I’ll bring it up when I see that therapist next week,” Mycroft mutters. “Also I wanted to ask you if you would be interested in some. Light bondage. And I had— I panicked.”

“Christ,” Greg sighs. “Never panic about that, of all things. You can ask me for anything. Literally  _ anything.” _

“Watch what you say to me,” Mycroft says, a little tease sneaking back into his voice. “I could torture you with that. Think of the most wildly depraved things to get you to do just because I know you will, for me.” 

Greg rolls his eyes. “Brat.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft says into Greg’s neck. 

“For?”

“Letting me be awful.”

Greg chuckles. “You’re welcome. Thank you for being such a terrible, spoiled little monster, eh?”

“You should tie me down  _ now.  _ Punish me for being so  _ bad.” _

Greg snorts. “It’s midnight, you made me rearrange the lounge four times after we took the tree down this morning, and I had to eat birthday cake with Sherlock this afternoon. I’m  _ spent.  _ You’ll have to wait for it.”

“Ugh.”

“Sorry. I’m elderly.”

“Ugh!”

Greg laughs and digs fingers into Mycroft’s ribs, tossing him back onto the mattress with a bounce as laughter gasps out. 

***

“Sir.” 

“Yeah?”

“Need to speak with you in private.”

Greg looks up at Gregson’s form, hovering in the doorway. “Got a minute? Take a walk?”

They take a walk. 

“How much access is your mister getting to information on the other side of this investigation?” 

Greg blows out a breath and shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “He’s supposed to be allowed full access, but he’s worried they’re keeping him out of some details. There are still people who are pissed off he won’t play their game. They don’t appreciate his name being thrown around, and they’re jealous he has a brain to put behind the name. He has allies, but...”

“I thought so.” Gregson nods. “Yeah, so we were digging through the stuff the security drones didn’t confiscate from the London flat. Not a lot. Some file boxes, some scribbles here and there. I’m supposed to turn in anything that seems like it could be in any way related to national security concerns, international espionage, terrorism, you know the deal.”

“Right.” Greg does know. The delicate accord between the Yard’s task force and the team from MI6 is… tenuous. Mycroft has been hissing down the phone here and there lately, when the government men don’t want to play nice. “And?”

“I might have something, and I think your man should look at it before I say anything to the SIS liaison.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Gregson says, her thumb rubbing thoughtfully at her lower lip. “A hunch.” 

Greg nods. “Yeah, okay. I’ll have him meet for lunch today or tomorrow if I can. We can show him then. Who else knows about it?”

“No one.” Gregson sighs. “I was here late and digging into some of the stuff we thought wasn’t important. At first, anyway. We didn’t think it was important at first. Might not be, but I dunno. Something about it is weird.” 

“You have great instincts, Jo,” Greg says. “You don’t need me to tell you that. I’m sure if you think there’s something, then there’s something.”

“Great.” Gregson nods decisively. “Wanna get a coffee and a smoke before we head back? I’m dying for both.”

“Please,” Greg says fervently. “Mycroft and I are supposed to be quitting but I  _ know _ he had one after his mother called the other night, so. I get a freebie too.”

“Christ,” Gregson mutters. “You’re bloody whipped.”

“Shut the fuck up and give me a cigarette.”

***

Mycroft turns the pages in the little moleskin notebook with his head tilted and his eyebrows drawn together. His eyes are quick across the disorganized jumbles of words and scrawls of drawings. He flicks his glance at Gregson. “What made you think I should see this?”

“It seemed coded.”

Mycroft lips twitch to the side. “It is. In places.”

Gregson nods. “And?”

“He was talking to someone with MI-6. They weren’t…  _ helping _ him, exactly. They asked him for a favor, I think. Maybe several. In exchange for… leniency. Or, perhaps, a blind eye.” Mycroft turns the page again. “He—“

Mycroft blinks. Greg straightens in his chair, the idle thoughts he’s been having about how hot it is when Mycroft goes all sharp-eyed and analytical flying away. “What’s wrong?”

Mycroft holds out a hand. “I need a blank sheet of paper.” He’s flipping between three pages in the book. “And a pencil.”

Greg fumbles them over to him, and then watches, nervous, as Mycroft scribbles out a grid of letters and starts copying out what the three pages in the book say, then goes about a decoding process that Greg can’t hope to follow. Gregson leans forward and watches, clearly fascinated. 

“Jesus,” Mycroft whispers. “Jesus, Greg.”

“What?”

Mycroft turns the page. “Vernet.”

“But.” Greg shakes his head. “No, that’s—“

“It was Uncle Rudy.” Mycroft rubs a hand over his mouth and turns away. “Oh, god.”

“Who’s—“

“His uncle,” Greg murmurs, standing and rounding the desk. “Mycroft, you’re  _ sure?” _

Mycroft nods without turning around. He turns his head to the side, the tight lines of his expression heartbreaking. “Yes.”

“Gregson,” Greg starts. 

“I won’t say anything. To anyone. Not yet.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft says, shoulders dropping. “Thank you. I don’t want anyone getting wind of it until I know. Until I can— if he was doing something that could come down on  _ me _ after the fact, I’ll need time to. Prepare.” 

“What else does it say?” Greg steps toward him, lays a gentle hand at the center of Mycroft’s back. “What do you think it means?”

Mycroft turns, and Greg’s hand slides and lands on his upper arm. He squeezes. Mycroft’s eyes are wide. “That’s just it. I don’t understand it. It says  _ the girl.  _ Something about  _ the girl living under a rock?”  _

“Is  _ that _ code for something?” Gregson asks. 

“I have no idea.” Mycroft sighs. “I think I need to go to my brother.”

“Sherlock and John are in Dartmoor.”

_ “Dartmoor?” _

“I didn’t ask.” Greg shrugs. “I think sometimes it’s better if we don’t ask.”

“Could you…” Mycroft chews at the inside of his lower lip. “Could you find them, maybe? Get him on the phone, or… I hate to ask this, but if you have to  _ go  _ there and  _ get  _ them. I’m going to need Sherlock. I… I suppose you might call it a hunch.”

“Yeah,” Greg says. “Yeah, I can go. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll be in the study with the boxes,” he says. “But first I have a meeting in Whitehall, and I’m going to have to pretend I don’t know about this.” 

“Well it’s lucky you have a stone cold poker face,” Gregson chimes in. “Eh?”

Greg shoots her a look. 

“Well, he does!” She shrugs. She scoops up the little journal. “D’you need this?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No, I—“

“Photographic memory,” she fills in. “Yeah, this one talks you up  _ a lot.  _ I know exactly how smart and lovely and fantastic you are.” She slaps Greg on the back on her way out. “Give him my number, Lestrade.” To Mycroft she says, “Call me if I can help you. Seriously, I mean it.” 

“Thank you,” Mycroft says, blinking a bit in that way he does when he needs to recalibrate. “I will.”

With Gregson gone, Greg pulls Mycroft close. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Mycroft says, muffled into Greg’s shoulder. “You talk me up to Gregson?”

Greg feels himself flush. “I talk you up to strangers on the street. Can’t help it.”

Mycroft hums. “Well, that’s nice.” He leans in for a quick kiss before stepping away. “Meeting with awful people who know awful things,” he says. “Text me if you get ahold of Sherlock? Or if you have to go to Dartmoor?”

“Absolutely,” Greg says. “And then I’ll see you at home.”

He still gets a thrill saying that:  _ see you at home.  _

He also gets a thrill at the way Mycroft gets a thrill out of it too, and the way he kisses him a little more firmly before he leaves. 

***

Greg ends up in bloody Dartmoor and doesn't get home until the next afternoon. He’s half expecting to find the flat empty, fairly sure Mycroft has things to do at Uni this time of day, but he opens the door to music, banging noises, and a strange combination of food smells. He also finds the kitchen utterly trashed, with a messy, flour-and-who-knows covered Mycroft beating the hell out of what Greg is pretty sure is chicken between pieces of wax paper on the worktop. 

“Er…” Greg feels frozen there for the time being. “Baby?”

Mycroft glances up. “Oh!” He tosses down the meat tenderizer and turns the bluetooth speakers off with a flick of the finger to the tablet propped between a saucepan and the mixer. “You’re home. Where is my brother?”

Greg laughs in disbelief. “He’s at 221B. What’s… what are you doing?”

“Learning how to cook.” Mycroft moves to wash his hands. “I’m getting good at it. See?”

He gestures, and Greg glances to the right and the second worktop, which is covered in stacks of plastic tubs, cellophane-wrapped loaves of bread, and bags full of cookies. 

“You’re learning to—“ Greg gets his head together, scans the kitchen; takes in Mycroft’s twisting fingers and shifting feet, his face turning ever-away. “You— What happened? What did you find out?”

Mycroft turns fully away, starts gathering up big pieces of raw chicken and dropping them in a bowl of flour. “I can’t talk about that yet.”

“Okay,” says Greg, automatically, nervously, as he steps a bit further. “Alright. Why don’t we… Have you slept?”

“No,” Mycroft says, short and definitive. To-the-point. A tone which invites no further prodding. 

Greg is going to prod. Greg is going to get very annoyed in a moment. “You have to sleep,” he says. 

“I am making chicken parmigiana,” Mycroft says airily, and Greg watches him go for the eggs set in a bowl on the worktop. 

Before Mycroft can so much as tap the first one on the edge of the counter, Greg strides forward and catches his wrist. “Stop,” he says.

Mycroft’s wrist is rigid. “I’m  _ fine.” _

“The hell you are.”

“Fine, I’m  _ not _ fine. I don’t want to talk about it. Leave me be.”

“Nope.” Greg pries the egg out of Mycroft’s fingers, the other hand shoving at his hips. “Wash your hands, they’re covered in salmonella.” 

Mycroft huffs, but does it, sliding sideways to the sink and scrubbing pointedly at his sticky, floury fingers. 

Greg keeps his hands at his hips while he does it, as if Mycroft might try to bolt away from the sink at any moment. 

When the water has been turned off, Mycroft just stands there, wet hands dripping on the floor. Greg turns him, presses him up against the edge of the sink.

“Tell me what you need,” he commands, fingers hard on Mycroft’s hip bones. 

Mycroft shakes his head, eyes cast to the ground. “It’s bad,” he says. “I think it’s very bad.”

“Tell me.”

_ “I can’t.” _

“You need. To sleep. You need to take a break.”

“I  _ can’t.” _

Greg shoves a hand against the crotch of Mycroft’s loose flannel pajama bottoms. “Yes, you can,” he says, dropping his voice low. “Want me to make it easier on you? Come on.” 

Mycroft’s eyes squeeze shut. “This isn’t— I don’t want you to do this.”

“Really?” Greg rubs his palm over Mycroft’s mostly-soft cock through the fabric. “Not at all? We both know that isn’t true. You know you’re tired. You know you can’t stop on your own. And you know you need me right now. We  _ both _ know it, Mycroft. Stop being such a stubborn little brat.” 

Mycroft’s breath leaves him in a loud exhale, and his hips tilt tentatively into Greg’s touch. “Help me,” he murmurs. 

Greg nods, hooks his free hand around Mycroft’s neck and hauls him in, kisses him deep and filthy. He feels Mycroft’s body start to respond almost instantly against his hand. “There it is,” he husks, mouth hovering beside Mycroft’s lips. “You’re so fucking  _ easy.”  _

Mycroft shakes his head, teeth sunk into his lower lip. 

“Yes you are,” Greg says. “You’re a slut for it and you know it. You would do anything I asked you to do. You would take anything I gave you. Admit it.” 

He shakes his head again, even as he swallows a moan at the rough rub of Greg’s hand on his growing erection. 

“Say it,” Greg says, letting his voice drop low and threatening. “Now.”

“No,” Mycroft whines. “No, I don’t— I’m not—“

“Tell me what a little slut you are,” Greg demands. “Tell me you need me.” 

Mycroft whimpers and shakes his head harder. 

“I was gone for less than two days,” Greg says, sliding his mouth down Mycroft’s cheek to his jaw, then to his neck, where he sets his teeth, scraping but not biting. “Look at you. You’re a mess. You  _ need _ this, don’t you?”

Mycroft shudders, his hips shoving forward. 

“That’s it. Rub yourself on my hand like the desperate little fucking whore you are.” Greg bites the join of neck and shoulder, and Mycroft keens in the back of his throat. Greg sucks the bite and gets his hand under the waistband of Mycroft’s bottoms, finding him sans pants under them, and wraps his hand around the silken length of Mycroft’s cock. 

“You’re so hot,” Greg murmurs just below Mycroft’s ear. “Your cock is already so fucking hard. You’re gonna come for me.”

Mycroft pants, one hand still gripping the edge of the sink behind him, and the other fisted in Greg’s shirt near his shoulder. 

“But not until you talk to me,” Greg continues, fist tight around the shaft and tugging dry and harsh. “Hm? Gonna talk to me?”

“Wh— What?”

Greg moves away, leans back to look at Mycroft’s flushed, tired face, the circles under his eyes and the clouded worry in them. “What’s my name?”

“I— Gr—“

Greg digs the nails of the hand around Mycroft’s neck into the flesh there. “What. Is my name?”

Mycroft gasps and twists, body leaning back into the dig of nails. “I don’t—“

“Mycroft,” Greg snaps, filling his voice with as much command as he can muster. It works. Mycroft’s body goes tense, stiffening up from the liquid it had been morphing into. “Who. Am. I?”

“Oh,” Mycroft murmurs, as if from far away. “Daddy?”

“That’s right, baby.” Greg twists his fist on the upstroke, digs his nails into the sweet, tender skin along the side of Mycroft’s neck, holding him tight and cruel so he can kiss him. Mycroft’s head lolls back, lets Greg take what he wants from his mouth, little puffs of air from his nose. “Say it again.”

_ “Daddy.” _

Greg takes his hand away and spits in his palm before returning it to the inside of Mycroft’s pants. “That’s fucking right,” he says. “And you’ve disappointed me. You aren’t supposed to be doing this. You should have been in bed last night. You have work to do. Don’t you?”

Mycroft’s pretty eyes fill with tears, and he nods silently with his teeth sunk hard into his lower lip. 

“Now I have to deal with this,” Greg continues. “Now I have to get you settled. I’ve been running around the fucking moors, Mycroft. I’m fucking  _ tired.  _ What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m—“ Mycroft whines as Greg speeds his hand on his cock. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Are you?”

_ “Yes.” _

Greg bites at his jaw. “Give me that lip,” he growls, and Mycroft’s teeth release it so Greg can suck it between his own teeth, hard, until he can taste blood. When he releases it, he soothes it with his tongue and says, “What are you?”

“I— I’m a bad… bad boy.” Mycroft’s hips thrust forward, driving his cock through the circle of Greg's fist. 

“You are. What else?”

“I’m a  _ slut,”  _ Mycroft sobs, his forehead falling to Greg’s shoulder so he can hide the way he’s crying already. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

_ “Shut up,”  _ Greg snaps, and jerks him faster. “Shut the fuck up, Mycroft, did I tell you to apologize?”

_ “No.” _

“Then why are you? You think I don’t like what a reckless little brat you are? You think I don’t like that you’re a little whore? You’re gonna come for me, and you’re gonna go to sleep. And in the morning, you’re gonna give me that sweet little arse, because that’s all you’re really good for, isn’t it?”

Mycroft gasps into Greg’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he manages, and now both hands are clenched over Greg’s arms, hanging on for dear life. “Yes.” 

“Come for me,” Greg commands. “Do it now.”

“I—“ Mycroft moves desperately against him, chasing the angle he needs. “I— Daddy, I—“ 

“ _ Now, _ Mycroft, or I’ll leave you here like this. You have until the count of five. One…”

Mycroft sobs. 

“Two…”

His nails sink into Greg’s upper arms. 

“Three…”

Mycroft comes, sobbing, in Greg’s grip. Greg pets his hair, doesn't say sweet things to gentle him through. 

The second Mycroft stops twitching, Greg releases him and steps back, pretends to scan the sight of him from head to toe: the wobbling legs, the dripping cock, the flush that melts all the way down his belly. “Go to bed,” Greg snaps. 

Mycroft nods. “Yes.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” 

Mycroft nods again and stumbles away from the sink. 

“Don’t you dare clean yourself up,” Greg adds. And watches Mycroft make his way to the hallway. 

Once he hears the door to the bedroom open and close, Greg falls forward, catching himself on the edge of the sink - it’s  _ warm,  _ Mycroft’s body heat still lingering in the enamel. 

He fists himself inside his jeans and it takes nothing - an embarrassing few strokes with his hand, which is slick with Mycroft’s come - to finish with a choked off groan. 

He washes his hands, after, and leaves the kitchen a wreck. 

He’ll climb into bed. He’ll hold Mycroft and say sweet things he means from the bottom of his soul. Tell him he’s perfect and smart and so good for letting Greg help him calm down. 

He’ll get them through til tomorrow, and then he’s sure that whatever precipitated all this will come crashing down on their heads. 

Until then…

Until then he’s Daddy. That’s it. That’s all. 

And not for the first time, Greg finds comfort in that. Remembers why he loves and needs this just as much as Mycroft does.

Suddenly, he barely remembers anything that happened in Dartmoor. 

There are more important matters at hand. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me to bed, Daddy Greg. *upside down smiley emoji*


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient while I took care of some family stuff, which necessitated slowing down writing for a few days! I think we have one more to go! Then perhaps an epilogue?

Mycroft wakes to the soft, lush press of lips against the back of his neck. He clears his throat, blinking sleep out of his eyes. 

“We awake?” 

Mycroft shivers at the rumble of words against his back. “Mmhm.”

“Okay.” 

Fingers - slick - reach down and trace over the cleft of Mycroft’s arse. He gasps; it’s cool, and he wasn’t expecting it, though now what was said the night before comes echoing back:  _ In the morning, you’re gonna give me that sweet little arse, because that’s all you’re really good for, isn’t it? _

“Really?” He asks, even as he goes hot all over, almost instantly hard. He pushes back into the searching fingers. 

“Really.” 

The fingers are blunt and ungentle, though not necessarily rough. Mycroft’s mouth falls open in a silent groan as they press into him with no preamble.  _ “Oh.” _

“This okay?”

“Yes,” he hisses, bringing his hands up to cling to the arm wrapped around him. He’s pulled back against a warm chest, and he lets his head fall back onto a strong shoulder. How to make it clear that he wants it exactly like he was promised last night? Mycroft lets his voice go breathy. “Oh, Daddy…”

Greg nips at his mouth. “I can tell when you’re putting on an act, you know.”

“It’s—“ Mycroft writhes as the fingers stretch him. “Not an act. I just— I’m not quite awa- _ ay!- _ ake!” 

A laugh is pressed into his hair just behind his ear. The fingers twist hard. “I’m waking you up, though. Aren’t I?”

“God, just—“ Mycroft tries, with little success, to rock back and force the right angle. “I need you.” 

“Do you?” A hum. “Do you,  _ really?” _

_ “Yes.” _

“Okay. So beg me.”

Mycroft gasps and laughs and chokes in between the two, and the fingers move away. He squirms at the wet sound of lube being squeezed out of the tube, and then slicked on. “But… But you said—“

“Does it matter what I said?” 

The slick head of that perfect, thick cock moves wetly between Mycroft’s thighs. 

“I suppose not,” Mycroft mutters. 

“Just do it.” 

“I don’t  _ want to.”  _ Mycroft shoves back then tries to twist around, but he can’t. Not held like he is. 

“Too bad.” 

Mycroft bites his lip against the pleading words that want to spill out. He doesn't want to give it up so easily. “Don’t you want me?”

“Nice try.” A slippery hand wraps around Mycroft’s cock, just holding, and a little too tightly. “Beg.”

Mycroft twitches, tries to shove forward into the grip. “Oh, pl— fuck.” 

“Almost there.”

“No.” Mycroft holds himself still. He is  _ not _ almost there. He won’t beg - yet.

Teeth nip sharply at Mycroft’s neck. “Yeah, I think so.” 

Mycroft wriggles and writhes, gets an arm up behind him to tangle in soft hair. He tries so hard to keep the words behind his clenched teeth, but he’s still slow with sleep and rattled with stress, and he just  _ wants.  _ “Please, Daddy,” he whispers.

Fingers twist around a nipple. “What’s that?’

Mycroft whines. “Please, please, I want you to fuck me. Use me, please, I love it when you— when you use my hole.” He isn’t even a little surprised at himself when he says things like this anymore. Where Daddy can’t see, Mycroft is grinning, turning his face to press his smile into the pillow.

“Oh?”

_ “Please, Daddy,  _ oh my  _ god.”  _

Laughter shakes them both, and his Daddy presses the sweetest of kisses to his cheek even as Mycroft is yanking hard on his hair, practically hanging off him by those tangled fingers. 

“Let go,” Daddy murmurs. “Get on your belly.” 

Mycroft does as told, automatically spreading his legs as wide as he can. 

“God, you’re so good.” 

A sharp slap to his arse has Mycroft laughing and gasping again. 

“You’re so good, Mycroft. You’re making up for last night, huh?”

Mycroft makes a noncommittal little noise. He doesn't feel remotely remorseful about last night. He knows the entire scene and this one were supposed to communicate a desire on Greg’s part to see him taken care of, while also serving as admonishment. But Mycroft hadn’t done it, hadn’t let himself become not much more than a mass of knots and fears and worries, hadn’t compartmentalized it all into figuring out how to use the oven correctly, with any conscious intent. He certainly hadn’t expected to be found there in the kitchen and taken apart against the sink. 

It had been a nice perk, however. So is this. Perhaps the only bright side to the last few days. 

He won’t apologize, and he doesn't have to make up for a bloody thing. This works for him and will only make ignoring what he learned while Greg was away easier. He wants to get fucked. He will get fucked. He knows he can get what he wants. He knows it doesn't matter if he’s obedient or not. He can play along with this or not. He can whimper and writhe or he could, right now, roll over and ask with wide eyes to just have it, no pretense, no play acting, and if he made himself dewy and needy enough, it would be given immediately. 

But Mycroft deserves a little fun, doesn't he? Before everything goes even more to hell than it already has? Yes. Yes, he does. And he can luxuriate in the knowledge that with Greg, no matter what he does, he still gets what he needs in the end. Later. He’ll think about that later.

A rough hand yanks his hair, pulls his head back and forces him to arch his back as the big head of his Daddy’s prick pushes into him. 

“Do you think I don’t know what you’re thinking?” Daddy tightens his fingers in Mycroft’s hair. “You realize I can read you like a bloody book? You smug little...”

Mycroft grins and presses his scalp into those harsh fingers like a cat asking for attention. 

Behind him, he hears a little huff of amusement. 

“You are so terrible,” Daddy murmurs as his hips press flush to Mycroft’s thighs and arse. “The worst.”

“So fuck the bratiness out of me,” Mycroft drawls. “Or at least do your best.”

His hair is released and teeth sink into the nape of his neck, and then his Daddy does his best. 

Mycroft goes boneless, goes pliant, loves it, loves it, loves it. 

***

“I have to go to Sherlock,” he says. 

“I gathered.”

Mycroft rolls onto his back and out of the safe circle of Greg’s arms. He’s already shoved a wall, or slammed a door, between Greg and Daddy. He’d have liked to languish there in the warm, syrupy goodness of that for a little longer, but the fact is that Mycroft can’t put this off or his brain will explode.

“What’s going on?” Greg asks. 

Mycroft sighs. “You can come with me,” he says. “I want - need - you with me. But I can’t say it to you before I say it to Sherlock. You’ll understand later.”

“Okay,” Greg agrees easily. “That’s fine. Shower?”

Mycroft is so lucky. “You go on,” he says. “If I get in with you I’ll never get back out. I need to focus.”

Greg kisses him, smooths a hand over his bed head, and nudges their noses together. “Okay, baby. Just rest here til I’m out? Please? Just lie here and breathe.”

Mycroft nods, unable to keep the side of his mouth from quirking up into a soft smile. “I will. Thank you.” 

One more kiss, and Greg goes. Mycroft throws an arm over his closed eyes, and does try to breathe. 

It’s difficult. 

***

221B is it’s usual cluttered mess. Mrs. Hudson, who seems to find Mycroft  _ cute,  _ delivers him and Greg to the sitting room with a steady stream of questions on the way. How are Mycroft’s studies? Is he feeling alright? Does he require a sandwich? Is he being well looked after? With this she gives Greg a sharp look. Mycroft answers her and reassures her. Fine, yes quite alright, no he isn’t hungry, yes of course he is very well thank you.

“Sherlock!” She trills. “Your brother is here! And  _ Inspector Lestrade.” _

Greg grimaces, the hand he has at the small of Mycroft’s back pushing a bit more insistently, eager to get into the flat and away from Mrs. Hudson’s suspicious gaze.

“She’ll warm up to you,” John tells Greg from his place in his chair. “She’s protective of ‘her boys.’”

“She doesn't even know me,” Mycroft says absently, eyes landing on Sherlock in the kitchen.

“I don’t think it matters,” John says. “You’re an extension of Sherlock in her mind, and she would let him burn this house down and still put up with him.”

Sherlock snorts, but doesn't look up. He plays nonchalant, as if he hasn’t spent the weekend breaking into top-secret labs and crashing around the moors in the night. Mycroft heard most of it on the drive over here. He watches Greg roll his eyes and settle himself against the wall, leaning with his arms crossed. Mycroft swallows the urge to apologize on Sherlock’s behalf. Sherlock isn’t sorry and most of the time, neither is Mycroft. Perhaps if Greg weren’t so willing, even happy, to put up with them both. But he is. He does. Mycroft thinks again how very lucky he is. 

Well. In some areas. In others, Mycroft thinks he may in fact be cursed.

John sets down the newspaper he’d been reading and blinks at whatever Mycroft’s face is doing. “Sherlock,” he says, in a tone that requires attention. 

Sherlock remains bent over a microscope in the kitchen, pretending he hasn’t heard. 

Mycroft sighs. 

John tries again. “Sherlock, you should—“

_ “What,”  _ Sherlock snaps, turning around and stomping over to the doorway, dressing gown swirling. He stops there, assessing gaze sweeping from Mycroft’s head to his feet. “Sit down, Mycroft.”

“I don’t wish to sit down.” 

Sherlock takes a step into the room. “You… Something happened. What is it?”

“Part of me thinks you must know already. You know why I am here.” 

“Only part?” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “Really?”

Mycroft chews the inside of his cheek. This is painful. His teeth on his own flesh are painful and the confusion of the last several days is painful. Not knowing things is  _ painful.  _ “The other part of me hopes to god that you don’t know. I… I have been disappointed by you in the past, Sherlock, but never— Never  _ betrayed.” _

Sherlock stands still as a statue, but his eyes narrow. “Then perhaps you should get to the point and we can decide whether I’ve betrayed you.”

“Are you aware,” Mycroft says, feeling a numbness flow down his neck and spine, a terrified shutdown ahead of what he’s about to say. “Are you aware that we have a sister?”

Sherlock blinks, once, slowly. “Yes,” Sherlock says simply. “She died.”

“No,” Mycroft says, and he can’t - he can’t seem to make himself understand the small shifts in Sherlock’s expression. Deduction escapes him. He doesn't know if he should say this gently. He doesn't know if he should make it an accusation. “No, Sherlock. I said we  _ have _ a sister.”

“Wait, sorry—“ John’s newspaper lays forgotten over his lap. “You had a sister?”

_ “Have,”  _ Mycroft repeats. 

_ “Had,”  _ says Sherlock, and he’s gone even paler than normal, lips drained of all color. “We  _ had _ .  _ I  _ had. You were barely— you were a baby. You never knew her.” 

Mycroft flicks his eyes to Greg, who stands against the wall, outwardly calm. He nods gently in Mycroft’s direction, and Mycroft forces himself to breathe. “Uncle Rudy oversaw the operation of an off the books prison,” he says. “Underground. On an island. Our sister lives there.”

Sherlock’s eyes close. He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“I need you to explain it to me, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s fists clench, the anger he’d first felt when he learned about Eurus’ existence starting to crawl back through his veins, burning away the numbness of fear. “Because I deserve to know.”

“Do you.” Sherlock opens his eyes. “And why is that? Because you’re so good?” Sherlock steps forward. “Because you did everything just so?” Another step forward. “Because you were Uncle Rudy’s second chance golden boy? Is that why you  _ deserve _ to know?”

“She’s my  _ sister.”  _

“No,” Sherlock says, low and cold. “She’s  _ my _ sister, and she is  _ dead.  _ And I’m  _ glad.”  _

Mycroft flinches. “How could you say—“ 

“If she’s underground, you leave her there.” Sherlock is very close to Mycroft now, eyes bright with something Mycroft hasn’t ever seen before. His brother has been so remote for so many years, and still is despite the inroads Mycroft has been trying to make since Sherlock got clean. Despite the ways Sherlock has recently been kind to him. Sherlock rarely lets his true feelings on anything show. Now he looks… enraged, and terrified, and nearly feral with it. “Do you understand, Mycroft?  _ Leave her there.  _ She’s buried, even if she’s not dead.” 

Mycroft shudders. “There is a problem with that.” 

“By all means, enlighten me.” 

“She is buried, but she isn’t dead. And living women can speak. They can speak with consulting criminals.” Mycroft swallows hard. “Uncle Rudy gave him to her as a Christmas gift. A play date.”

Sherlock whirls away, fingers digging into his hair. “No.”

“Yes.” Mycroft takes off his coat, finally, and throws it over the desk chair. “Sit down, Sherlock. And explain.”

***

By the end of it, Mycroft feels sick. Greg is behind him, standing at Mycroft’s shoulder, a hand holding him steady. Mycroft is hyper aware of the texture of the chair he is sitting in. The rough fabric under his hand. He digs his nails into it. John has gone to the kitchen for tea with an awkward clearing of his throat. 

“How—“ Mycroft clears his own, coughing against the rasp in his own voice. “How did we all get out of the fire?”

“Why does that matter?”

“I don’t know.” Mycroft doesn't know, not exactly. It’s something in the way Sherlock’s mouth twists when he tells the story. It’s the things he’s left out of it. “Tell me.” 

Sherlock looks away. “Mummy and Daddy thought I had you. They grabbed Eurus and ran. I was halfway out the door when I heard you screaming. I ran back into the house.”

Greg’s hand tightens over Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft resists the urge to cover his face in his hands. It takes considerable effort not to show how that casually tossed out bit of information makes him feel. He wishes he could bring himself to produce tears. He wishes they were a different sort of family. “What about the fire at her hospital?”

“She died in it,” Sherlock murmurs. “That’s what Uncle Rudy said. I was nineteen. She would have been eighteen. He wanted me to go to America. Train up. You know the drill. Obviously. I… had told him I wouldn’t go. You were very small. You were still very small.” He stands and paces to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t.” Mycroft swallows. “I don’t want you to be sorry.” 

“I never would have gone if I thought she was alive.”

“Well,” Mycroft forces himself to sit up straighter. To calm the storm of fear and love and horror that wants to tear past his teeth in the form of screaming sobs. “It has been over twenty years, and she hasn’t… hasn’t killed us yet.”

“Killed you,” Sherlock mutters. “It was you she hated.” 

“Christ,” Greg hisses, the first words he has spoken. “He was just a baby. You were  _ children.” _

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, but does not elaborate. 

“What do we do now?” John asks from the kitchen doorway. “How does all of this connect to Moriarty?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft says. “I couldn’t find anything that would explain it. All I have are visitor logs and a scant few coded notes from Uncle Rudy, and a mad, raving man’s notebook. Her medical records. Still photographs. She’s beautiful. She looks like—“

Sherlock shudders. “Stop.”

Mycroft stops, blinking. He hadn’t meant to say that last piece. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I don’t know. I don’t have any idea what I meant.” 

“She looks like me,” Sherlock says. “Everyone always said. Practically twins. Peas in a pod. Just the same. Right down to the brains. The oddity. The… sociopathy.”

“You are not a sociopath.” Mycroft tries to will Sherlock to turn around and see how much Mycroft means that. See how very sure he is of that.

Sherlock remains at the window. “I need you to go, brother. I need to think.” 

“Sherlock—“

“Just. Go, Mycroft. Please, if you care about me at all, do not put yourself in a room with her.”

_ No,  _ Mycroft thinks.  _ Of course I’ll need to see her. Speak with her.  _ “But—“

Sherlock whirls, has Mycroft by the lapel and hauled out of the chair before Greg or John can make the startled sounds they make a split second later. Mycroft finds himself with his arm twisted behind his back and Sherlock’s furious voice in his ear. “Tell me you won’t,” Sherlock snaps. 

Greg shouts something furious and threatening, but Mycroft’s ears are ringing. He breathes and brings his foot down hard on his brother's instep, capitalizes on the surprise and slackened grip to shove his free elbow back into Sherlock’s gut, and turns as his wrist is released. He doesn't punch him, but he shoves him, hard. Sherlock catches himself, eyes cast to the floor, arm clutching his belly. Mycroft knows he didn’t do it hard enough to damage him. 

“You don’t dictate what I do or don’t do,” Mycroft says softly. “Not when you have kept this from me.”

“What does it matter?” Sherlock snaps. “She was dead and gone, you were alive, I did my part, and then I… went away. What reason was there to ever tell you? Our parents didn’t want you to know. It wasn’t my choice,  _ nothing ever was.”  _

By the end, his voice is like thunder, and it crashes over the room, leaves a ringing silence in its wake. Mycroft understands abruptly. Mycroft knows that feeling, knows that state of being so incredibly intimately. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I do understand that. But. We have choices to make now, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock turns away again. “Get out, Mycroft. If you go to her, you are on your own. I saved you once. That’s it.” 

Mycroft sighs. He knows, somewhere deep in his chest, that Sherlock does not mean that. He also knows that he won’t go to that sad rock of an island without Sherlock. “I won’t go,” he says. “Not without you. Sherlock, if we’re going to deal with Moriarty, we’re going to need to deal with her. Please text me when you are ready to study the evidence. We have work to do.”

Mycroft retrieves his coat and nods to John, then to Greg, who follows him, silent and wide-eyed, to the door. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says to his brother’s back. “I do love you very, very much. Thank you for what you did for me.”

Sherlock doesn't so much as twitch. 

Mycroft goes. 

***

“You were right,” Mycroft says in the car on the way home. 

“I was right?” Greg is still gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. “What? About what?”

“I’m well adjusted. Perfectly normal.” Mycroft shoots him a wry smile across the car. “All things considered.”

Greg laughs under his breath. “Yeah.” 

“We can’t go home yet,” Mycroft says. “I need… please take me to Whitehall.”

“Okay,” Greg says, automatically taking the turn they’ll need to take to go there instead of back to their flat. Mycroft is so deeply grateful for him. “What for?”

“I need to speak with the agent my uncle left in charge of my sister.” Mycroft watches London pass by the window and works to organize his thoughts. “I need to ascertain their… loyalties. Intentions. And I may need to request some rather urgent meetings to ensure Moriarty is still in custody and is going to be  _ kept  _ there.”

“This is all completely insane,” Greg says, but he reaches for Mycroft’s hand.

“I know,” Mycroft sighs. He grips Greg’s fingers between his own. “Thank you for being with me anyway.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.” 

Mycroft keeps his face turned toward his window so Greg doesn't see that his eyes are full of tears that refuse to fall. His jaw hurts, he clenches it so tightly. Greg’s hand tightens around his. 

***

“My boss isn’t happy about this,” the woman says when she steps into the conference room. “You’ve rather annoyed a lot of people here, you know.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Do you have a ‘boss’? Really?”

She smirks. Lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “Do you recognize me?”

“You were my uncle’s nurse.” Mycroft watches her sit gracefully across the table. “I assumed you were a junior agent like the others.”

“I was,” she says. “I was very good. I got promoted.”

There is no way Uncle Rudy handed this over to a recently promoted agent. He can’t read her, not like he can other people, but Mycroft sees what she wants him to see. She  _ is _ very good. And she just might be trustworthy. 

Mycroft leans back in his chair. She leans back in hers. “He handed you an entire murderer to look after.” 

“Among other things.” She doesn't do anything to indicate that Mycroft is one of those things. He knows that he is. 

Mycroft refuses to look as unsettled as he feels. It is entirely possible that this woman knows everything about him. It doesn't matter. Part of him is glad for it. It expedites things. “In that case, I think I have a favor to ask you,” he says. “Miss…?”

She smiles, and Mycroft sees relief and, strangely, affection. 

“You are very like him,” she says, and holds out her hand across the table. “Call me Anthea.”

***

Greg sits Mycroft down, plops a cat in his lap, and goes to get them drinks. 

“You know,” Greg says, once they’ve sipped the nicest scotch in the flat in silence for several long minutes. “I think it’s fine.”

Mycroft looks at him askance. “What could possibly be fine?”

“Well…” Greg shrugs. “It’s been fine so far, hasn’t it?”

“She may well have sicced Moriarty on Sherlock.” 

“Maybe.” Greg tips his head back against the sofa cushions. “Sounds like she’d have been more likely to send him after you.” 

Mycroft lets out a breath. “I don’t know. I don’t understand this.”

“Join the club.” Greg reaches over, clinks their glasses together without looking. “So what do you reckon? This Anthea is trustworthy?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft murmurs. “But I have a good feeling about her.”

Greg rolls his head to the side, looks at Mycroft. “Yeah?”

Mycroft nods. 

“Well you’re usually right, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes I don’t know.” Mycroft copies him, turning to look at him from across a sofa cushion. “Sometimes I think you’re the only good feeling about which I was ever correct.”

“Right back at you, love,” Greg murmurs. “Drink up. We’re going to spend the rest of the day in bed, and then in the morning we figure this out.” 

“You make it sound easy.”

Greg leans in, presses their lips together, quick and chaste. “Some of it will be. Promise.”

***

Mycroft stands in front of the board he’s put together in his study at home. From the desk, Anthea says, “We’re going to take the whole thing down. His entire web.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies. “We are.”

“Who do you trust to help you?”

He doesn't need to think. “Only four other people.” 

“Good,” she says. “Keep it small.”

Mycroft doesn't say that he isn’t going to have much choice in the matter. He expects Gregson and Alicia will be up for it. Greg is a given. 

Beyond them… 

Greg appears in the doorway. “Hey,” he says. “Jo’s on her way.”

Mycroft nods. “Alright.”

“She and I could lose our jobs.”

“I know.” Mycroft could find himself at the bottom of a very dark hole, or under a rock with his sister. He could come out of this owning half of MI6 or with half of MI6 gunning for him. Or, more likely, both. 

Greg nods. “We’re willing to risk it.”

Mycroft smiles. “I know. Thank you.”

“We have guests.” Greg steps into the study, and then so does Sherlock. So does John Watson. Greg’s arm slips around Mycroft’s waist. 

Mycroft doesn't say anything to his brother, knowing that this will be a delicate accord for the time being. He nods to John and turns back to the board. There are maps. Scribbled addresses and telephone numbers. Pins. Strings of numbers for bank accounts and coded communications and IP addresses. There are internet search records. His uncle’s handwriting. Mycroft’s. Moriarty’s. Nameless, faceless agents and long-scattered criminals.

“No red string,” Greg says regretfully. “Shame, that.”

Mycroft laughs. “Sorry,” he murmurs, then turns to look at the people in the room with him. “Right,” he says. “Are we ready?”

***

The funny thing is, once Gregson has been and then everyone has gone, the study door clicks shut behind him and Mycroft stands in the hallway, and he simply stops being that person. It’s so swift and so intense that it’s a physical sensation, a dropping away of the earth under his feet, just for a moment. 

Mycroft breathes. 

In the lounge, the lights are low and music is drifting from a speaker. Greg is stretched out over the sofa, a hand over his eyes and the other resting on his own belly. He’s in his work clothes still, and socked feet. He’d rolled up his sleeves sometime in the last hours, and lost his tie as well. He looks tired, but relaxed. As if he didn’t just spend half the day staring down the barrel of the smoking gun that could get them all ruined. 

Mycroft breathes. 

He is now the sort of person who can join that bubble of peace. That easy shift into  _ home.  _ All it takes is the closing of a door.  _ Literally.  _

Mycroft crawls into the bubble, drapes himself bodily over Greg, whose arms instantly move to hold him.

“Good?”

Mycroft nods. “Yes. Good.” 

A hand sweeps up into his hair. “Okay, baby.” 

Mycroft breathes, and smiles. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Must be super clear that this fic right here is not morphing into a casefic and I don’t plan to somehow resolve Moriarty and Eurus in the next chapter. I would really like to add more to this universe later, and maybe I’ll do that then. But this fic sort of became a continuation of some self contained, fun smut, which attempted to see how canon might fit around the changes I made to it. While still doing the unrepentant porn thing :D I really enjoy playing with the relationships and dynamics based on those changes, and it’s always been more about giving Greg and Mycroft a really interesting and fulfilling relationship, than about a plotty plot. So don’t stress! Don’t worry. Everything is going to end well for our heroes, and untied loose end will leave room for a) your own headcanons and b) a possible sequel!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last big chapter. I hope you enjoy :) <3 *throws confetti*

Greg hadn’t realized that Mycroft’s reaction to overwhelming stress would be an insatiable sex drive. 

It’s unsettling at times, and rather exhausting. It’s also very, very hot. 

“Just keep cooking,” Mycroft mutters from his position on his knees on the kitchen floor, already unbuckling Greg’s belt. 

Greg, stirring a pot of stew, blinks down at him. “What?”

“Just let me?” Mycroft’s already brushing his mouth against the front of Greg’s underwear. 

Greg pets him, can’t quite help it. “Let you suck me off in front of the stove?”

“Yes.” Mycroft smiles, and it’s genuine - it reaches his eyes. 

“What brought this on?”

“I can’t just be in the mood to get my Daddy’s cock in my mouth?” Mycroft’s hand strokes slowly up and down Greg’s thigh. 

Greg carefully sets the ladle on the spoonrest. “Do I… is it _required_ that I keep cooking?”

“Could be sexy,” Mycroft suggests. He lets Greg’s trousers drop, reaches into Greg’s boxers, up through the leg, and teases fingers around his balls. He breathes hot air through the fabric over the head of Greg’s cock. “You take such good care of me. Let me pay you back.”

Greg laughs. “Listen—“

Mycroft tugs the waistband of Greg’s pants down with his free hand. “I’m listening,” he murmurs, and opens his mouth around Greg’s prick. 

Greg forgets what he was going to say. 

*

“Alright there, boss?”

Greg shoots Jo a wry look, glancing away from his mobile, and the photo Mycroft just sent him. “I’m fine,” he says, laying his phone screen-down on the desk. “Need to wrap it up for the night, though.”

“I see how it is,” she murmurs, smirking down into her takeaway container of Chinese noodles. 

“Do not,” Greg warns, but he’s laughing. 

Jo knows him better than anyone on the force; that’s been true for years. But since she offered herself up as help in the tangled mess of Moriarty and the security services, things have changed. She’s been to Greg’s flat. Often. She’s had dinner with Greg and Mycroft and Mycroft’s weird brother and scary new agent friend. She’s walked in on them trying to catch just five minutes of quiet closeness in the kitchen after midnight, which had unfortunately spun out into Mycroft begging Greg to _‘just touch me a little, no one’s coming’._

She’s his friend. _Their_ friend. She finds Mycroft fascinating and cute, possibly in equal measure, and she’s never said a word about the age factor. She’s a bit of a danger lover, is Joanna, which Greg hadn’t known about her before. She’s very on board with the Holmeses, and with Greg’s strange, chaotic life. The sort of sense of humor which had resulted in a ‘Holmeswatch’ tally board over her desk makes a lot more sense now that Greg has seen her tell a raging Sherlock to get fucked without pausing her conversation with Anthea about falsified blood spatter evidence. 

Still, Greg doesn't think they’re able to discuss his sexting habits while in their actual workplace, in Greg’s office, where he functions as her superior. 

“It’s fine, Greg,” Joanna says after a moment. “If you let me take the rest of your hunan beef home.” 

“Done deal.” He pushes it across the desk. “Hey, thanks for everything you’re doing.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“Yeah.” He stands and grabs his coat from the back of his chair. “I do. You’re doing great work. And you were right to read Dimmock in on some of it. He’s flourishing.”

She smiles. “He is, isn’t he? He’ll be a better D.I., one of these days.”

“And you’ll make D.C.I. before you know it.” He shoots her a wink. “Lock it up on your way out?”

She nods. “Yeah, of course. Greg - D.C.I.?”

“Yeah.” Greg’s surprised at her surprise. “Seriously, the sheer number of dots you’ve connected these past two months is unreal, Gregson. You’re on fire. You’re managing your teams beautifully, and you’ve been instrumental in getting Moriarty’s connections sussed out. I can’t exactly tell the higher ups all of it, but what I can tell them is more than enough. Someone’s about to get kicked up the ladder,” he says, opening the door to his office. “I’m putting your name forward as a replacement. That okay?”

Her grin widens. “Sure, yeah. That’s fine.”

Greg winks at her and gets out of there, unlocking his mobile to take in the absolutely scandalous pose Mycroft had put himself in to get that photo. 

*

“Look up,” Greg growls. When Mycroft doesn't, he delivers a smack to his left arse cheek, timed with a hard thrust that slaps the fronts of his thighs into the backs of Mycroft’s, rocking him forward so sharply that his forehead nearly collides with the mirror. “Mycroft. I said _look up.”_

“I can’t,” Mycroft gasps, head hanging between his shoulders, eyes on his own forearms on the floor. 

“I didn’t buy this mirror so you could pretend it doesn't exist.” Greg’s fingers dig into Mycroft’s soft hips. “I want you to see yourself. So do it.”

Mycroft shakes his head, so Greg doesn't ask again. He hauls Mycroft up, off the floor and into Greg’s lap. He’s seated fully on Greg’s cock, and now his eyes are squeezed shut. Greg hooks his chin over Mycroft’s shoulder so he can watch them in the obnoxiously large and gilded full length mirror propped against their bedroom wall. 

“Open your eyes,” Greg says. “Or I’ll fuck you until I come in you and then leave you unfinished.” 

“Fine,” Mycroft pants. 

Greg reaches around and strokes him from root to tip. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t get you close.” 

Mycroft whines. 

“I want this, Mycroft.” Greg bites and licks at his shoulder, the crook of his neck, the sweet skin under his ear. “I want to watch you watching us. It’ll make Daddy so happy, baby, come on and do it for me.” 

Mycroft shudders and swallows, licks his lips and wraps a hand around the forearm Greg has wrapped across his chest. He opens his eyes. “Oh.”

“Look at how beautiful you are,” Greg murmurs, then nips his earlobe. “Look at my gorgeous baby boy, my _god.”_

Mycroft’s eyes are glossy with tears. “I’m—“

“You’re so pretty,” Greg fills in. “You’re so perfect.” He works his hand firmly over Mycroft’s cock. “Look at this, so hard for me. Budge up a little, pull off me for a second.”

He gets his legs out from under him, guides Mycroft to straddle his lap, facing away. 

“Fuck yourself on me,” he instructs. “Ride it.”

Mycroft gasps and makes a sound like a sob. Greg can’t see him in the mirror from this angle. He’ll fix that in a moment. Mycroft sinks down on him slowly. 

“Lean back,” Greg murmurs, leans back a little on one hand and spreads the other across Mycroft’s chest to cradle him back against himself. “That’s it. Go on.” 

Mycroft moves, rolling his body to work himself up and down. He makes lovely little moans and choked grunts, which only get better when Greg plays with his nipples. 

Eventually Greg guides Mycroft’s arm around his own shoulders so he can drape him to the side and see the mirror again. “Fuck,” Greg whispers. “Fuck, look how well you take it.”

Mycroft’s neck goes loose. He tilts, his temple resting against the top of Greg’s head. He watches the mirror with lidded eyes, but he watches. 

“Say it,” Greg demands, hands moving to hook under Mycroft’s knees, lifting him a little and thrusting up into him. 

“S-say what?”

“Say you’re gorgeous.” 

“What? No!” Mycroft averts his eyes from the mirror, cheeks staining dark red. 

“Say it,” Greg says, softer now. He turns and catches Mycroft’s mouth in a kiss. “Look at yourself and tell me it isn’t true.” 

Mycroft looks, teeth sunk into his bottom lip. 

“God, I love you,” Greg says. “You’re so good for me. I want you to be good to yourself. Be good to you like I try to be good to you. Say it, baby, please. For me.”

It takes some time. It takes Greg forcing the rhythm of their bodies into something slower and more teasing. It takes a lot of whispered encouragement. 

But Mycroft says it, and after he does, Greg fucks him just like he knows Mycroft wants him too. Says, “Look, look, look, watch yourself come all over us both.”

And misses the very end of it because the force of his own orgasm makes him go temporarily blind. 

*

“So…” John Watson studies him over the rim of his pint glass. Greg realized that he and John are less than ten years apart in age, and that he seems like a slightly unhinged but otherwise alright sort of bloke, and figured they should maybe get to know each other. He invited him out for a pint and pretending to watch football while they figured each other out. For both of them, this seems to mean trying to get a handle on why the other is mad enough to be with a Holmes. 

“So,” Greg says. 

“Mycroft’s…” John clears his throat. _“Young.”_

Greg quirks an eyebrow, takes a big swallow from his own pint. “He used to be even younger,” he says with a bit of edge. 

“How long have you…”

“Two years.”

“So he was…”

“Nineteen, yeah.” Greg drinks nearly all of the three quarters of a pint he has remaining, in one go. 

“Jesus,” John mutters. “Alright.”

“Sherlock’s a fucking insane person who used to stumble into my team’s crime scenes high off his tits, who has kept a sister a secret for a couple of decades, and baits serial killers for sport.”

John knocks his own pint back. “Yup.”

“Should we get something stronger?” 

“Yeah.”

*

“Oh, fuck,” Greg gasps. Orgasm has _never_ surprised him like this. He doesn't have time to get the words out. “Oh— My—“

Mycroft _laughs_ under him, stroking himself sloppy and slick with a fistful of lube Greg had squirted there himself while babbling that he couldn’t focus enough to touch him and fuck him at the same time. “Just—“ he clenches hard around Greg, milking it out of him. “Just give me your fingers.”

“I need—“ Greg hangs on to Mycroft’s hips for dear life, still shaking with it. “I need you to take the plug out.” 

“Oh, absolutely not.” Mycroft grins up at him, beautiful and spoiled and delighted. “I need you to get hard again. I’m going for four tonight, and you’ll need at least two.” He kicks Greg in the arse with the heel of one foot. “Get _out of me,_ I need your _fingers.”_

Greg is so fucking…

Happy. 

*

“He’s asleep,” Anthea whispers, slipping into the kitchen and accepting a cup of tea from Greg. “Poor lamb.”

“He’d kill you if he heard you call him that.”

She grins and shrugs. “Oh well,” she says. 

“Any word?” Greg checks, knowing the answer. 

“No, not yet. My team is good, though, and they’re working off of solid intel, thanks to Sherlock. If there’s anything to find in Serbia, they’ll find it. This op is a marathon, not a sprint.”

“And…” Greg has already asked this so many times, but. “And you’re sure we can trust—“

“They’re not MI6, Greg.”

“Are _you?”_

Anthea smirks and sips her tea, turning on her heel. “Where is the ugly cat? I want to take him to the guest room with me. He’s lovely and warm and you two keep this place too cold.”

Greg tries not to adore her, he really does, but she just got Mycroft to go to bed when no one else could, not even Greg, after three days, and she looks much younger and softer in her stocking feet with her hair down. She reminds him of his nieces and his sister and, a little, of Mycroft himself. Sharp. But human. And good at heart. 

He follows, and goes to see if Morse is sleeping on the piano bench again. 

*

“I love you,” Mycroft whispers, a little desperate. He’s waking Greg up from a doze on the sofa, grinding down against him. “Daddy, I love you, please— help me—“

Greg isn’t surprised at all. He’d expected this today. He rolls them, pins Mycroft under him. “Stop thinking,” he says, sharp. _“Stop.”_

“Make me,” Mycroft begs.

Greg does.

*

“He needs to see her,” Greg tells Sherlock. “And she might know where the end of this is. She’s talked to Moriarty. There’s a _reason_ she’s talked to him. We don’t know until we _talk to her.”_

“She spoke to Moriarty because my aging uncle, full of regrets, wanted to get a reaction from her. He wanted to find her an outlet. He was an idiot.” 

Greg sighs. “Sherlock.”

“Anthea has spoken to her,” Sherlock says, eyes on his violin where he’s tuning it. 

“Anthea has said that she doesn't _speak_ at all.”

“And you want to throw Mycroft at her like a sacrificial lamb?” Sherlock glares down at his own fingers tightening strings. “That is what you would be doing.”

“You would be there.”

“That won’t matter.” Sherlock looks up, finally. “Eurus has been silent for a year. Almost inert, for a year. Since our Uncle died, or thereabouts. Before that? Do you know what Anthea’s records show before that?” He sets his violin aside and stands, crossing to the window with his signature drama and flapping dressing gown ties. “Dead orderlies. Dead guards. Increasing her medications. Decreasing her access to human beings. She takes the time to adjust, learns habits and finds weaknesses to exploit. And then she kills again. For pleasure. For sustenance.She’s an apex predator, Lestrade. You might as well show a starving tiger a bleeding hunk of meat and then tell it to _be nice.”_

“Anthea will go. I’m pretty sure Mycroft said she once killed a man with a stapler and a pair of pantyhose. There are more guards, no way for her to get to anyone, there are—“

“No.”

Greg inhales and holds his breath. “Look.” He crosses to stand next to Sherlock. “I don’t want him to go. I can’t stand it. I know… I know what Anthea’s files say, but I don’t need those. All I need to know is that she tried to burn him to death before he even made it a year on this earth. I don’t want him, or you, anywhere near her. And I’m sorry. But Sherlock... If we don’t try, Mycroft will never let it go. He’ll always be sure we missed something that we could have learned from her, and he’ll always wonder about her. Always. It’ll eat at him. You know it will.”

“Serbia was most likely the final—“

“Most likely isn’t enough!” Greg grips Sherlock by the shoulder, turning him. “This is your life we’re talking about. Moriarty had multiple plans with embedded contingencies that would have taken every single game of cat and mouse you engaged in with him to the inevitable conclusion of _your death._ Mycroft barely sleeps. He’s terrified. He _adores_ you, Sherlock—“

“Then he’s an idiot.” Sherlock shrugs off Greg’s hand. “Go home to him and coddle him, Inspector. You are wasting your time here.”

From behind them, Greg hears John clattering up the stairs and in through the open door of the flat. “Oh! Greg!”

“Lestrade was just leaving.” Sherlock turns, picks up his violin from the sofa. Doesn't turn around again. 

Greg feels tired down to his _molecules._ His shoulders are always tight, always somewhere up around his ears these days. They drop now, and he wants nothing more than to claw at his face and scream, haul Sherlock by the hair out of 221B, turn to John and tell him to _fix this._ He breathes. “Yeah,” he says. “Just leaving. See you, John.”

He hears John ask what that was all about as he exits, and before he hits the front door the screech of a violin. 

*

“I’ll go on my own,” Mycroft says one night. Anthea’s just gone with Gregson and Alicia in tow. Greg got the impression they were going for drinks, the three of them together. Which is terrifying. “If Sherlock won’t—“

“You did promise him you wouldn’t.” Greg drops down on the sofa and pulls Mycroft’s feet into his lap, squeezing a hand around the sole of one. “Come to bed, won’t you?”

“I’m not tired.”

This is a bold-faced lie. Greg could bodily move him, he supposes. It would lead to a fake tantrum, a bit of wrestling about to get Mycroft into bed, and then probably a lot of very intense sex until he finally passes out. Greg never thought he would ever feel fucked-out when it comes to Mycroft but god, he is tired. He’s burning out on it, mentally exhausted from the energy it takes to figure out how far to take it, how harsh Mycroft needs him to be. And it’s not remotely healthy, which Greg realizes is probably an ironic thing to think, considering all the ways he’s worried their relationship was unhealthy when it wasn’t. 

“Mycroft,” Greg says slowly, “I need you to come to bed with me. You don’t have to go to sleep. But I need you to lie down in the dark with me, and the cats, and rest. I can’t— I can’t force you to do it, I can’t be in charge of you tonight. I’m tired, and I’m worried, and I just. Need you. To do this for me.”

Mycroft goes very still, the little twitches of his body as Greg’s thumbs press against the ball of his foot completely stopping. Greg glances up the length of his body. Mycroft’s eyes, shadowed by bruise-like dark bags, are wide. 

“What?”

Mycroft licks his lips. “You never ask me to do things that way.”

“I’m asking now.”

“I’m—“ Mycroft looks away. His voice cracks on the next words. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t cry,” Greg begs, both hands wrapped around one of Mycroft’s ankles. “Baby, please don’t—“

Mycroft wipes at his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I know.”

“I’m afraid to go to sleep.”

Greg swallows against the feeling of his heart trying to come up in pieces. “Oh, sweetheart, I know.”

“Please don’t leave me alone in bed?”

“I promise I won’t.”

Mycroft nods, pale and red-eyed. “I’ll go, then.”

Greg sighs. _“Thank you.”_

*

“I wish you would tell me what the hell is going on,” Laura says, an edge to her voice. “You show up here with your crazy eyes and say Mycroft’s in danger but you can’t help, and I’m supposed to what? Fix us a cuppa?”

“Yes,” Greg mutters from her kitchen table. “Please.”

Laura sighs. 

Greg knows that he sighs the same way. They both do _exasperated and tired_ with the same heave of shoulders their mother always did. Laura turns to the kettle with a mutter and a shake of the head. Greg fiddles with his mobile, turning it over and over in his hands. 

_I will text as soon as the helicopter lands,_ Mycroft had promised. _But they’re going to take my mobile from me when I enter._

And then what? 

Then what?

John had offered to sit with Greg. But Greg thought that was a little too _waiting for our men to come home from the wars._

Greg’s mobile pings and he nearly swallows his own tongue. 

**MH (5:56pm):** We have landed. Everything will be alright. I love you.

Greg shudders out a sigh and taps back an ‘I love you too, be CAREFUL’ before setting his phone down with a clatter. 

“He okay?”

Greg nods, numb. “Yeah, he’s alright.” 

“What the hell is with that family?” Laura drops tea bags into two cups. “What’s his _job,_ Greg?” 

“The family is weird. Mycroft is… unique. His job is whatever he decides it is on any given day. Officially, he’s a doctoral candidate and that’s it.”

Laura looks surprised that he said so much. “How the fuck did you end up mixed up in all that? They’re both painfully posh and frankly out of your league.”

Greg cracks, laughing into his hand. “Believe me, I know. I don’t know how I pulled it off.”

The kettle hisses and clicks behind her, so Laura turns to pour. “Do you ever regret it?”

Greg blinks at her back. “Regret… what, Mycroft?”

“Yeah.” She turns and sets the cups down on the table, retrieves the cream and sugar to set those down too. “You live together. You’re _together-together._ You couldn’t get untangled from all this without a lot of bother, right?”

Greg stares down into his tea, messes with the string so he can watch the amber cloud out into the cup. “I don’t want to get untangled,” he says. “Why, do you think I should? Want to?”

Laura sits across from him and copies his motions, dunking her tea bag with the string wrapped around her finger. “I don’t think anything. I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy,” Greg says. And he means that. “I mean, the last couple of months… they’ve been not-great. But it’s not Mycroft’s fault. It’s barely even Sherlock’s fault. The world we live in is violent and terrible. I already knew that.” He shrugs. “It is what it is.”

“You really love him,” Laura says. “That’s… that’s not nothing.”

“No, it’s not.”

Laura hums, sets her teabag aside. They’re quiet while they doctor their tea together, and while they take their first sips. Laura sets her cup down with a clunk. “So, alright, say he and the mad brother survive whatever this is.”

“They will,” Greg says with a note of warning. 

She ignores that. “Right. So you’re gonna marry him, right?”

Greg inhales tea and nearly coughs right into the cup. 

Laura grins wickedly and folds her hands on top of the table, waiting for him to pull himself together. She is such a _dick._

“Jesus,” Greg chokes. “You are the absolute worst, you know.”

“Mmhm.” 

Greg spends some time reaching for a tea towel and mopping the table with it, cleaning the bottom of his tea cup, staring into its depths. Laura waits him out. 

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. “Maybe soon.”

“You got a ring?”

Greg sips his tea. 

“You do.” Laura snorts. “You _do._ Since when?”

Greg shakes his head. “That doesn't matter.”

 _“Greg.”_ She kicks him under the table. _“Since. When?”_

He may as well admit it. She’ll never stop asking. They’ll be married (maybe) and she’ll still be asking. He doesn't look at her. “Since he came home from the U.S.”

“That’s almost a year ago.”

“Yeah.”

Laura stares at him. He can feel her eyes burning into the side of his face. “Wow, Greg.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean, _wow._ You hadn’t even asked him to live with you officially yet. He was _twenty._ You had known him all of what, a year?”

“Yes, I know.”

She laughs. _“Wow.”_

Greg drinks his tea. For a few minutes, he almost forgets that Mycroft is standing in a room with a woman who wants him dead.

*

When Mycroft lets himself into the flat, Greg tries very hard not to look as if he’s been hovering by the door. He fails, but it doesn't matter. Mycroft’s face melts with relief, and he moves quickly, easily, into Greg’s waiting arms. 

“Oh my god,” Greg breathes. “Oh, you’re alright.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says into his neck. “Of course I am. So is Sherlock.”

Greg moves him back gently, scanning him for injuries or distress and finding nothing. “And your sister?”

“Unsettling,” Mycroft replies on a shaky exhale. “Remote. Deeply disturbed. Brilliant. I… don’t ever want to go back there.” 

“Thank fuck,” Greg murmurs and pulls him back in. 

“Sherlock does, though.” Mycroft clutches at Greg’s back. “He… He _grew up with her._ I can’t believe… I don’t blame him. For wanting to… help her.”

There’s a lot of pain there. Mycroft, left by his brother to twist in the wind for most of his life. Mycroft, only just now understanding why over a decade later. And now a clean and somewhat healthy Sherlock wants to be there for their criminally psychotic sister. The one who tried to kill Mycroft, who Sherlock _left._ It doesn't matter if Mycroft doesn't blame Sherlock for it, it must hurt like hell anyway. 

Greg holds him tighter and says nothing. There’s nothing _to_ say. 

“I’m so tired,” Mycroft sighs. 

It’s a relief to hear that for the first time in months. Greg takes it to mean that whatever information they did get from Eurus put some of the Moriarty business to rest. Fleetingly, Greg wonders where Moriarty is now, and hopes to god he’s kept there. Judging by the shark-like smile Anthea had given him when he asked about it a few days ago, he will be. 

“Come to bed,” Greg murmurs, rather than ask about any of it. “Sleep with me.”

Mycroft nods, and he comes along easily. And within fifteen minutes Greg has him stripped and settled between cool sheets, Gershwin curled in the crook of his arm. He’s pretty sure Mycroft is asleep before his head even hits the pillow. 

Greg stays up all night, watching him. 

*

“Um…”

Greg turns away from the wardrobe, where he’s been trying to figure out which tie to set out for the next day. “Um? Um, what?”

Mycroft hovers in the doorway to their bedroom, fingers twisting. “It occurs to me that I may have been a little… _off._ Recently, I mean.”

Greg raises an eyebrow. “Off?”

“Yes.” Mycroft shifts his weight from one foot to the other, averts his eyes. “In bed. Mostly.”

Greg bites down on a smile and turns back to his ties, choosing one at random. 

“Not that one,” Mycroft says, crossing the room and plucking it from Greg’s fingers to hang it again and choose another. “Here.” 

Greg takes it wordlessly, and can’t hold this smile back with his teeth. “You were a little off,” he acknowledges. “In bed. And in the kitchen. And on the sofa. And the shower. And once in the car—“

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft interrupts primly.

Greg grins, relief making his chest feel light. He sets the tie over the bottom of the hanger holding the shirt he’ll wear tomorrow, and then steps into Mycroft’s space. “There you are,” he says, hands going to his hips. “I missed your little moods.”

“I don’t have little moods.”

“Sure, sure.” Greg has to press an affectionate kiss to his forehead. “I wasn’t exactly suffering, you know. A little...chafed, maybe.”

Mycroft laughs and hides his face against Greg’s shoulder.

God, Greg missed this sort of thing. It’s been a matter of weeks, but it’s felt like years without the easy, pointless little touches. The comfort that’s sweet and soft, and not urgent and necessary to get through the next twenty minutes. 

“I really am sorry,” Mycroft says, muffled. “I probably horrified you, there at the end.”

“No,” Greg says gently. “Never. Maybe a good idea to see that therapist again. You said the first time was nice and then everything went all…” He waves, then returns his hand to the dip of Mycroft’s waist. “Messy.”

“Yes, okay.” Mycroft shuffles in closer. “I will.” 

“Good boy.” 

Mycroft shivers. 

“Hey,” Greg murmurs. He slips an arm all the way around Mycroft’s body and uses his other hand to tilt his face up and tease their lips together. “You wanna?”

Mycroft laughs, his smile spreading under Greg’s mouth. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” He kisses him, quick and chaste. “Really slow. Nice. _Sweet.”_

“Kinky,” Mycroft breathes, and leans up and in, mouth opening beautifully under Greg’s. 

The kiss is slow, and nice, and sweet. And hot. And perfect. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says when they part to breathe. “Okay. Take me to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue next! Click click!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe this is it.

**_One Year Later_ **

Mycroft is halfway out of his office door, planning to knock on Anthea’s before he leaves. He wants to go over the things she’s keeping an eye on, the things he’s delegating to their team while he and Greg go away for Greg’s 49th birthday week. But before he can close his office up at last, his mobile rings. He huffs, sure it’s going to be that blowhard from the Home Office who he hates so much, but when he digs the phone out of his coat pocket, it’s John Watson’s number on the display. Mycroft checks the time - late. After seven. John is supposed to be with Greg, having pints tonight. 

_ I’m meeting John at my old local around six, _ Greg had reminded Mycroft just that morning. 

Mycroft answers. “John?”

“Oh, thank god you answered! Greg’s not returning my texts and calls are going right to voicemail.”

“He had court today,” Mycroft says. “He may have forgotten to turn it back on. You’re late to meet him?”

“I’m not gonna make it,” John says, a bit regretfully, but Mycroft can hear a bang and clatter in the background. “On a case. Time got away from us, and I’ve been trying to get in touch, but—“

“Alright,” Mycroft interrupts. “It’s no problem, John. I’ll make sure to pass along your apologies.”

“Hey, thanks, Mycroft. See you!”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and locks his phone before returning it to his pocket. He considers going to Anthea’s office as planned, but. Greg is probably getting antsy at the pub and… 

And it  _ is _ the pub where they met. Mycroft hasn’t returned since that night. It could be… interesting. 

Besides, Anthea doesn't need him fussing around her. She’s his immediate superior, technically. She’ll only roll her eyes, anyway. 

He flicks off the lights and shuts his office door. He’s going to the pub. 

*

It’s not crowded like it was the night they met. It’s midweek, so the crowd is an after work pints-and-football crowd. Greg is easy to spot, his coat and suit jacket on the back of his barstool, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and his hand curved around a nearly empty pint glass. He’s had a haircut today. Mycroft doesn't recall him mentioning an appointment, but he certainly didn’t have those crisp lines when they kissed goodbye at the door this morning. 

It’s for their trip. Greg made sure to get a haircut before they leave for Spain. Mycroft feels strangely affectionate. Touched by that. They’ll have to take a lot of photos. Greg will look amazing in the sun with his neat hair and the very nice vacation clothes Mycroft bought and packed for him, refusing to hear any objections. 

Mycroft gets caught at the front of the pub, staring at the lines of Greg’s back and shoulders until someone tries to come in behind him, clearing their throat pointedly when Mycroft remains in their way. He steps aside with a murmured, absent apology, and shrugs out of his coat, folding it over his arm. 

He’s wearing a suit. Last time he was here, he had been coaxed into a shirt with the top buttons undone, casual black trousers, and a conversation about his sexual preferences - all by Alicia, the harpy. His hair had been longer. He’d been thinner. A lot thinner, actually. Mycroft eats more, now. Cycles with Greg and tries to keep regular running dates with Anthea. But he’s nothing like he was three years ago.

_ Well you can’t be nineteen with the hips of a malnourished Victorian orphan forever, _ Greg had teased, smacking Mycroft’s fingers away from where they were pinching the softness at his own sides.  _ Stop that, and let me suck you off before work.  _

That was  _ yesterday.  _ Mycroft finds himself grinning like an idiot, watching Greg rub his hand over the back of his head, eyes trained on the television over the bar. He’d thrown an absolute fit about that  _ Victorian orphan _ comment, and for that he’d received the most relentless spanking yet. His thighs still ache a little.

_ I love you,  _ Mycroft thinks at Greg’s back, and decides to stop lurking there at the front of the pub. 

He approaches until he’s within tapping distance of Greg’s shoulder, and with each step a plan, ridiculous but potentially interesting, begins to form in his mind. He taps Greg’s shoulder with two fingers. 

“Excuse me,” he says, and when Greg turns and takes him in and his face lights up in recognition, he quickly adds: “Hi. I’m sure you didn’t notice, but I… I’ve been watching you from across the pub. Um… All night.” He takes a stab at a shy lack of eye contact, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Could I… buy you a drink?”

Greg catches on immediately, teeth catching the inside of his lower lip and tugging on the resulting grin. “Of course I noticed,” he says. “Couldn’t have missed you. You’re awfully cute to be hanging around a place like this.”

Mycroft blushes, genuinely blushes because  _ god.  _ This is not how it was at all. He can’t help but think of how it really was and feel a little retroactive embarrassment for himself. “And the drink?”

Greg kicks out the stool to his left. “Sure. But I’m buying.”

*

Greg’s heart is pounding. For a minute or two, all he can think of is where this will go - inevitably somewhere very sexy. He can already imagine the way Mycroft will giggle when the role play falls apart somewhere between the door of the pub and the door of the flat they’ve shared for over a year. 

But then Mycroft says, “You’re here alone?”

And Greg says, “Was supposed to meet a friend, but I think I’ve been stood up.”

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow. “Did you check your texts?”

“Oh—“ Greg fishes out his mobile and winces. “Damn, I turned this off for court.”

“You could check it now.”

“Eh,” Greg shrugs and pockets the phone again. “I think you might be more interesting company.” 

“You said for court? What do you do?”

Greg licks his lips, tries so hard not to smile as hard as he wants to. “I wonder if you could guess.”

“I could, I think,” Mycroft demurs. “You should tell me anyway.”

“Well I could tell you,” Greg says. “But I’d have to kill you. All very top secret, you see.”

Mycroft visibly shakes with suppressed laughter. “Ah.” 

“Hmmm.” Greg gets the bartender’s attention and orders them each a bourbon. 

“That’s my favorite brand,” Mycroft murmurs. 

“Is it? What a lucky guess, huh?”

“Very.”

They fall quiet, watching each other out of the corners of their eyes, while the drinks are poured. 

Greg clinks their glasses together and angles his stool so he’s facing him. “I picked someone up in this pub once,” he says.

Mycroft blinks and smiles, very, very slowly. “Did you? How did that go?”

“Pretty well,” Greg says, then sips his whiskey thoughtfully. “He was a bit easy, went home with me after a couple of hours.”

“What a tart,” Mycroft intones. “And how was  _ that?” _

“Really,  _ really  _ good.”

They consider each other over their glasses. Greg suddenly wants to kiss him. Badly. Not even… not even in a particularly sexual way. Not as a promise of what’s to come when they finally do shrug off this little game. Just because… it  _ was  _ really, really good. He feels the need to make Mycroft sure that he’s being completely sincere. That he means so much more by that than— 

Mycroft tips the rest of his whiskey back in one go. “Well, you could always tempt fate a second time.” He stands from his seat and steps in close between Greg’s legs. “Hm?”

Greg sets his glass down with a thunk and leans in, catches Mycroft’s lips in a kiss that’s way too sweet to be playing along. Mycroft makes a surprised little sound in the back of his throat, but kisses back, hands cupping Greg’s elbows shyly. When they part, Greg says, “It did work out really well for me the last time. So… yeah. Want to get out of here?” 

Mycroft nods. “I do.”

“Meet you outside? I’ll settle the bill.”

Mycroft nods again, eyes a little sparkly, full of mischief. He’ll go out there and call the car. His fingers trail gently down Greg’s leg, tapping against his knee as he backs away. “See you in a moment.” 

And then he’s back in his coat and is gone.

Greg signals the bartender as he swallows the last of his whiskey. He stands and shrugs into his jacket and then his coat. When he reaches into his inside pocket for his wallet, his fingers brush the edge of something he’s been carrying with him everywhere for months. His breath catches. 

_ Now. Right now.  _

Greg tosses money the bartender’s way and shoves his wallet back into his pocket, swapping it for the little box. He secrets it into his hand before hurrying out the door of the pub. 

*

It’s cold, and Mycroft’s breath clouds in front of him, but he feels unaccountably warm. This trip they’re taking, it’s important. They need it badly. They’ve needed to decompress from the pressure cooker that has been the last year and some change, and now things are stable and safe enough to do it. Mycroft has been looking forward to it. The  _ fun _ of it. He hadn’t expected it to start this way. He loves that it’s starting this way. 

Maybe it’s a good omen. Maybe it’s a sign that he should—

“Hey.”

Mycroft turns and is a little surprised to be tugged right into another kiss, this one much less tentative than the one inside the pub, one of Greg’s arms hauling him in around the waist, under his unbuttoned winter coat, a very Hollywood sort of clinch. Mycroft melts into it gladly. 

“You’re really beautiful,” Greg says when it’s over, hand cupping Mycroft’s cheek. 

Mycroft feels a bit out of breath. Something about this is perfect. They’re under a streetlight. Everything is so sweet and silly and hot and good, and he is so  _ ready.  _ If he could just get Greg to let him go, he could get a hand into his pocket. 

“Listen,” Greg says. “Listen, I— I know we just met.”

Mycroft laughs, remembering that they’re playing this game. “Mm?”

“And maybe it’s… crazy. I don’t know.” Greg releases him gently. “But—“ He licks his lips. 

Mycroft is sure for a split second, as his brain swaps tracks for the third time in as many seconds, that he’s going to have a heart attack. Or possibly faint. He catches up, deductions flying fast. The arm that had gone around Mycroft’s body for that kiss. That hand had been holding something. He knows a split second before it happens what Greg is going to do. 

Greg sinks to one knee, right there on the pavement. 

Mycroft closes his eyes. 

_ Of course. _

*

“Yes,” Mycroft blurts before Greg can say anything at all.  _ “Yes, yes, I’m saying yes.”  _

“I didn’t even ask you!” 

Mycroft hasn’t opened his eyes. He shakes his head rapidly. “I know, but I— I’m saying yes.” His hand goes inside his coat. 

Greg watches, eyes surely about to fall out of his head they’re so wide. “Mycroft—“

“I was going to ask you on your birthday,” Mycroft says, an edge of complaint there, a little petulance. There is a ring box in his hand. “I had it all planned out.”

_ “I  _ was going to ask  _ you _ on my birthday. In the morning.” Greg laughs. “Oh my god. Wait, why am I on the ground, then? You’re the one with young knees—“

“Shut up,” Mycroft says, laughing too, and hauls him up with a hand. 

Their foreheads meet, and Greg says, “Should we swap, then? Can I see mine?”

Mycroft nods, kisses him, and backs away enough to open the ring box in his hand. “I didn’t even get a good look at mine, let me see.”

They swap boxes. Greg reaches out to wipe a tear from Mycroft’s cheek. “I love you,” he says.

Mycroft swallows a hysterically happy sob and kisses him again. “I love you, too.”

They look down together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO I HAVE A LOT TO SAY.   
> You all are so... so amazing. You’ve been so supportive and encouraging, and it has been so much fun to write this. I’m baffled as to how something that was supposed to be a way for me to write some kinky smut morphed into.....this. But I’m so so so glad that it did.   
> A lot of things you all have said to me in comments were incredibly close to my own feelings and motivations. I started this on September 1, a little bit out of spite toward some of the folks in fandom who like to imply moral judgment based on what a person reads, writes, ships, whatever. I thought well! I can do whatever I want! And you know what, I’m gonna write THIS.   
> But this also started as a way to channel a lot of nervous, frightened, upset energy due to the general state of the world, into something enjoyable. And boy has it been a success in that sense. I never write as I go. I always agonize over everything I post. Not so, with this fic. I just had FUN. And you guys seemed to be having fun too! And that felt amazing! I loved doing this, and I was just so happy that people were getting something out of it.   
> Also, some of you have mentioned being in relationships with an age difference, and I want to say I appreciate your compliments on my handling of this one, and I am really glad you identified with some themes in this fic. I happen to be married to someone over a decade older than me, and while it’s not so much of A Thing these days, when I was 24 and we got together, it sure was A Thing. So I definitely put some of my own experience in there. I’m delighted to have shared some feels about it with you all through this story.   
> I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for hanging out with me and for being just so kind to me.   
> I can’t wait to write more about these guys later on <3

**Author's Note:**

> This will continue. 
> 
> meansgirlwrites on twitter. 
> 
> Title is from George Michael's "Father Figure" because I'm trash and I have zero shame, goodbye.


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